


Two Houses

by celedan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, First Time, Inspired by Romeo and Juliet, M/M, Same-Sex Marriage, Suicide, Teen Sherlock, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celedan/pseuds/celedan
Summary: Sneaking on Violet Holmes' summer ball, John Watson meets the love of his life. Unfortunately, Sherlock is the youngest son of the Holmes matriarch, the arch-enemy of John's family. WIth the help of Mrs. Hudson and Mike Stamford, the two teenagers can keep their love a secret. Until a tragedy strikes that shall change everything.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Two Houses

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Zwei Häuser](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20094940) by [celedan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celedan/pseuds/celedan). 



> I can only stress once more: Major Character Death! We're talking about a Sherlock-version of Romeo and Juliet after all. I probably don't have to explain what happens at the end.  
> Nonetheless, I wish all you brave people to have fun reading.

“Oh Mary!” John whined for the fifth time now.

Bill moaned desperately. “Dude, are you done yet?!” Bugged, he chucked his empty, squashed beer can in the nearest corner. “She dumped you. For good. Get over it!”

With pain-laced eyes, John looked up to his best friend. “But I love her. Why can't you understand that?!” 

“Pfft. She was a slut who threw herself at the next-best guy who crossed her path, only because you were too clingy.”

“Say that again!” John hissed, his love-sick expression suddenly changing to one of anger. 

Disarmingly, Bill raised his hands. “Sorry, didn't mean it like that,” he lied, and John calmed down again. 

“John, you're only seventeen,” Bill tried a different approach. “Every break up seems like the end of the world.”

“Since when are you so worldly-wise?” John grumbled, and, powerless, dragged himself up from the stained leather couch in the gloomy pub Bill had tracked him down in. “Only because you're sooo mature with eighteen?! And just because you screw everything on two legs instead of believing in true love, you have no right to make fun of those who do... and hope for it.”

Dejected, he drank the last of his own beer can, and grimaced. What a dump this place was, selling cans with bad beer instead the proper stuff in bottles. 

Another sigh made it passed Bill's lips, but he grabbed John's wrist, and started steering him from this shady place.

“I'll never get over her,” John whined theatrically and pretty pathetic, his renewed whining only exponentiated by the alcohol he'd consumed.

“We'll see,” Bill murmured while directing John towards his car, biting back another inept remark.

Instead of bothering with the love-sick fool next to him, Bill rather got scared stiff about what would happen if he dropped John off with the Doc in that condition. James “Doc” Watson wasn't someone whose ire you wanted to attract, even if you were his son's best friend.

“Where are you going, dear?” Mummy's voice abruptly stopped Sherlock, and he grimaced on the inside. But when he turned around to her, there was no reaction visible on his pale face.

“I'm going to church.”

“That's nice, dear,” Violet Holmes replied absent-mindedly while she pored over the invitations of her annual summer ball. Then, she put them away for a moment, and looked at her youngest son. “It's laudable how much you help Father Mike with his charity projects. A well-founded faith and a healthy amount of benevolence never hurt anybody. It firms the character.”

Sherlock nodded. “And that's why I don't want to be late.”

Violet nodded, and smiled a put-on, bland smile; the only way she was still able to smile. “Of course. Alexander shall drive you.”

Sherlock suppressed a curse since he, before being intercepted by his overprotective mother, had hoped to leave the house alone. Swallowing his chagrin, he nodded, and fled from the parlour.

Frustrated, he sat on the backseat bench of the car which Alexander drove in the direction of the church. He was fifteen, Jesus Christ. He wasn't a baby any more, and he could quite well manage to go alone to church and come back save and sound. Wasn't as if anybody took much notice of him in his prison of gold and marble he grew up in. Since Mycroft, the traitor, had moved out, everything had taken a turn for the worse. One day, Mummy clung to him like a leech, the next, she didn't even pay him any heed but rather busied herself with the family company or her hypocritical charity functions, together with her bigoted friends.

“We're here, Sir,” Alexander's voice brought him out of his frustration. Sherlock looked up, and for a moment, met the leering gaze of the dark-haired driver. Sherlock sniffed, and got out of the car. “You can go. I'll come back on my own.”

“But your mother...”

“My mother isn't here,” Sherlock snapped back haughtily. “Do as I say.”

As a reaction, he only got an amused “Very well, Sir,” as well as another challenging look that practically stripped him right here and now. With satisfaction, Sherlock slammed the car door, and looked after the car as it drove away, making sure that the pesky driver really took off.

Wasn't it great, he thought sarcastically while trudging up the stairs to the church, to be taken so seriously only, at the same time, to be seen as a sex object for a macho loser with chronic horniness.

Since he couldn't slam the church's portal as satisfying as the car door, Sherlock instead briskly marched down the aisle until he stopped next to Father Mike who was just changing some candles at the altar.

“Sherlock,” the stocky man exclaimed, and smiled at him. When he noticed Sherlock's dark expression though, he sighed. Amicably, he put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, and pulled him in the direction of vestry. “Had a bad day, hm.”

“Seems so,” Sherlock pressed through gritted teeth.

“What did you tell your mother this time?” Mike asked with a chuckle. “Confession or charity project?”

Sherlock shrugged. “The last. Going to Confession this much would even make my mother suspicious at some point.”

Mike sighed again. “I really wish you hadn't any secrets from her, but I know you don't have another choice.”

“Then it's redundant to continue discussing this.”

“Alright, alright. Let's pick up where we stopped yesterday.”

Sherlock's mopey mien vanished at once, and turned into excited anticipation. “Where there any reactions yet?” he asked eagerly while he, after leaving the church through the vestry exit and entering Mike's adjacent home, promptly made a beeline for the chemical apparatus in Mike's lab. Lovingly, he studied their current experiment.

Behind him, Mike laughed. “I said twenty-four hours. Those aren't up yet.”

“But I couldn't wait any more.”

“Well, you will have to. Let's do something different in the meantime.”

Curiously, Sherlock turned around to Mike who sat down at the cluttered table, a good distance away from the countless chemical substances on the lab tables. He held a book in his hand. 

Sherlock grinned brightly, and sat down next to the priest who opened the book. “Chapter three: plant-based poisons.” Sherlock practically vibrated in excitement. “When we're through with that, and are done with our experiment, we can go over to the practical part of plant-based poisons.” The young man next to him nodded eagerly.

Mike returned the nod, and, for a moment, looked contemplatively at the black-curled head bend over the book. It filled him with a deep sadness that this brilliant, gifted young man only seemed to live and came out of his shell when he either played his violin or sat here together with Mike who taught him theoretical and practical chemistry and biology. It wasn't normal to have not even one friend at his age, but when you looked closer at the Holmes-family, it maybe wasn't so surprising after all. One half of the people was afraid of Violet Holmes which was why people avoided Sherlock. The other half was too stupid to realise Sherlock as the treasure he really was. They weren't able to look behind his rude, distanced manner to see the human hiding behind it all, to see the incredibly lonely boy who had no idea what friendship or love meant.

Truth was, he felt so, so sorry for Sherlock. And that was why Mike allowed the boy to visit with him a couple of times during the week so that they passed there time here in his lab for hours although Mike had other things he should do instead. He wanted that Sherlock at least had one thing in his life that made him happy. And, if Mike had to be truthful, it made him happy as well to work together with this brilliant boy who shared his own passion from his teenage years. More than once, they had shaped up a plan which university Sherlock should visit to study chemistry and biology. Mike still stood in contact with a few friends from his uni days who, by now taught there themselves. He would put in a good word for Sherlock that they looked after the boy. Even Violet Holmes would be hard put to find any fault with these career plans – if she would even notice. Sherlock had given up on a career as a professional violinist two years ago already, before Siger Holmes' death when “Mummy” had still taken an interest in her children, but when instead, the Holmes patriarch hadn't been all too happy about his youngest's plans. By now, Sherlock had learned to think more pragmatically, and keep his dearest wishes to himself. The wall Sherlock had errected around himself so that nobody could hurt him was unpenetrable, even for Mike although he was the closest thing Sherlock had for a friend.

“It's time for the sommer ball soon, isn't it?” Mike eventually asked casually into the silence. 

Sherlock didn't look up from his book but scrunched up his nose in disgust. “A necessary evil that I can't escape unfortunately. Why? Do you want to go?” Something knowing and teasing rang in Sherlock's mocking tone. 

Father Mike felt himself blush. “Well,” he started, stammering.

“Alright,” Sherlock stopped him brusquely. “I'll ask my mother for an invitation for you as it's apparently your dearest wish to make a fool out of yourself at a mask ball.” Sherlock frowned. “But try to avoid her. I don't want our secret uncovered just because you prattle away in your party mood.”

“Don't worry, I'm not as witless as I may look like,” Mike assured hastily. 

Sherlock still frowned. “I know that,” he admitted slowly. “But she is a blood hound that can sense secrets. Even if her abilities have been blunted by too much planning for petty parties.”

“I'll be careful,” Mike insisted again.

With that, Sherlock seemed to be content because once more, he bend closely over his book. 

A few minutes of silence passed during which Mike was at odds with himself.

“What?” Sherlock burst out eventually since he had noticed the priest's hesitance of course.

“Nothing, nothing. It's just... Yesterday, after you'd gone, Victor Trevor came here. He'd just missed you.”

That attracted Sherlock's attention, and he suddenly sat up straight. “What did he want?” he wanted to know sharply.

Mike shrugged, but a shadow had laid itself over his normally jovial face. “He wanted to see you. Obviously, your mother told him that he'd find you here.”

Taking deep breaths, Sherlock balled his hands into fists. “It's suspicious how often he is our guest lately. Don't you think I don't know what that's all about?!”

“He would be a good catch, you have to admit that,” Mike began carefully.

“He is a pompous, narcissistic idiot who thinks he's irresistible,” Sherlock spat in disgust, and threw Mike an affronted look possessing the gall to even suggest something like that. “And why should the Trevor family marry off their only son and heir to me?”

“The Trevors have been after an alliance with the Holmes family for ages now. You know that. And as for an heir: He has a mistress. That's widely known.”

“Marvellous, then maybe he won't bother me during our marriage,” Sherlock replied cynically. But then, he remembered something else. “Why did you seem so worried when you mentioned Victor if you think he's such a good catch for me?”

“Jim Moriarty was with him,” Father Mike explained without unceremoniously.

Sherlock froze, and he felt all blood drain from his face. But after a few moments, he'd composed himself. “So what?” he parried as casual as he could. “Jim Moriarty is nothing more than Victor Trevor's illegitimate cousin. He's of no importance.”

“Sherlock.” Mike grasped Sherlock's arm, and looked at him imploringly. “Victor's only interested in joining your families. He doesn't care about you. But Moriarty...” Mike shuddered involuntarily. “He has his eyes on you, and he's dangerous,” Mike warned urgently. “Very dangerous, Sherlock, even though he's still so young. I have a bad feeling with all this. Just be careful.”

Sherlock returned the Father's gaze for a moment before he wrenched his arm from his grip brisquely. “Don't dramatise the whole matter, Father. I'm not a helpless damsel that needs a knight in shining armour to protect her. I'm very capable to take care of myself.”

Mike frowned, but nodded then. “Very well. Let's continue.”

Irritated, no, furious, John's fingers clawed the thin piece of newspaper, almost tearing it in his rage.

Like a hawk, his gaze snapped up when suddenly, the door to his room was flung open, and Bill Murray strolled in. John jumped up, and marched over to his best friend.

“What were you thinking?!” John shouted, incensed, as a greeting, and waved the newspaper clipping into Bill's face. The other boy at least had the good grace, after he'd stared at John like a confused squirrel for a few seconds, to look a little sheepish.

“You know how Sebastian is, the wanker,” Bill groused meekly. “He provoked us.”

“And that justifies giving in to his taunts?!”

“Nothing happened,” Bill tried to defend himself.

“Nothing happened?!” John barked out incredulously, and started pacing up and down in front of the other teenager. “Serious material damage as a consequence of your little encounter.” Once more, John waved the clipping around. “You're lucky nobody got hurt, and that you weren't caught although everybody knows who left that mess of course.”

Moaning loudly, Bill threw himself onto John's bed. “Please stop it! Your father already read us the riot act.”

“Rightly so,” John hissed. “This isn't the US. We don't behave like primitive, trigger-happy cowboys.”

“Yeah, you're right, but what were we supposed to do. Let Sebastian Wilkes or one of the other Holmes boys blow our heads away? Fuck it, mate. That's not why our guys started working for your dad.”

“I seriously start doubting that,” John grumbled, threw the newspaper aside, and dropped onto the bed next to Bill. “You're such a cliché: trigger-happy mafia boys.”

“Wait a minute. And what about the Holmes boys? They're not the mafia.” Indignant, Bill sat up again. 

“No. They're just part of the mightiest, oldest family in this country whose matriarch won't stand for a crummy, new-rich mafioso working his way up to the mightiest man in the area that competes with her about ruling this city.” 

Suddenly tired and frustrated, John brushed his hands through his face and through his blond hair. “I'm so sick of this shit. Why can't the government rule this place like our god-damned constitution intended to. After all, we have something like a Prime Minister, don't we who happens to live in this city, and there's a mayor as well. Not to mention a parliament.”

“Hmpf. Mycroft Holmes will contest for being the next mayor.”

“I know. I read about it.”

Shit, that guy's only twenty-five.”

John shrugged. “They say he's some kind of wunderkind. Had his university degree with twenty-one, and went into politics after that. He seems to have cut a fine figure within the government.”

“Still. That's not normal. And if he really wins? What then? A Holmes at the helm  _ officially _ .”

“He keeps out of our parents' feud. He always did, just like me. He has no use for all that shit when he wants to win.”

Bill scrutinised him from the side sternly. “You really defend him?”

John shrugged again. “I'm only saying that I understand him. When I'll leave for university to get my medical degree, I want nothing to do with all of this either.”

“Hmpf.” Offended, Bill let himself fall back again, and kept silent for a while. John, although he had closed his eyes, heard Bill turning his head in his direction on the rustling sheet. “How's Harry by the way?” The leer in his voice was hard to miss. 

“Still a lesbian,” John replied, bored. 

“Hm. Pity.”

“Hmhm.”

“Oh well.” The restless older boy sat up once again, and clapped his hands. “Then I'll have to look elsewhere for a hot bird. And I have just the thing for us in mind.”

“Oh Bill. Please. Another one of your brilliant parties you want to drag me to?” Desperately, John tried to hide his face in his hands if he couldn't escape.

“Nope. No party. A ball.”

John peeked between his fingers. “A  _ ball _ ?! He exclaimed in disbelief. Bill nodded, grinning.

“Who on Earth has a ball nowadays...” John froze and stared at Bill, disbelieving. “No. You can't be serious.”

The grin became broader. “I so am. I got tickets from a friend who can't go. They're even blank cards. So, completely legally, we simply fill in our names, well, maybe not  _ our _ names, and voi là, in we are.”

“In my opinion, the idea sucks royally, Bill,” John hissed, but couldn't really deny how good the adrenalin felt that suddenly started pounding through his veins in hindsight of their plan. Sind sogar Blankokarten. Wir tragen ganz legal unsere Namen ein, naja, vielleicht nicht  _ unsere _ Na

“Nah,” Bill giggled. “You have to get your mind off of things. You're moping in here for days, just because of  _ her _ .”

“When they catch me, I won't have the chance to think anymore, period,” John interrupted his completely impossible friend. 

“Sp oilsport. Maybe you will meet someone nice. Someone really nice. Someone for the long run.”

“At Violet Holmes' sommer ball?!” 

Bill shrugged. “Not ev'ryone who's attending is a Holmes or politically connected with them.”

“Once again: What if anybody recognises me?”

“Don't worry. It's a costume and mask ball. Could there be anything better?!” 

John decided not to answer that. 

Dressed up and masked, four days later, John let Bill lead him up the steps to the elegant suburban property which was illuminated by bright lights. His hand flew to his face to check one last time to see if his mask was still sitting tightly over his eyes and nose. It did. Exhaling in relief, John shrugged and entered, the invitation card grasped in clenched, sweaty fingers, the lion's den with the firm intention of having a little fun tonight.

“See, child's play,” Bill giggled, quite tipsy already, after they had passed security at the door without any problems. 

John nodded, and his gaze roamed through the pompous entrance hall which was already crowded with strolling guests in flamboyant costumes. 

“Come.” Bill dragged him into the adjacent rooms, snatched up two champagne glasses in passing from a waiter, and pushed one into John's hand. 

Arriving in the great hall, John stood lost in the room for a moment, wondering what to do now. There was music and some people, mostly younger ones, dancing in the middle of the hall, but otherwise, this event was pretty boring and stiff. And that was supposed to be Violet Holmes' famous summer ball. Ts. His school's sports festival was more exciting.

“Boring, isn't it,” Bill took the words right out of his mouth. John nodded. Bill flung his arm around John's shoulders. “Sorry, mate. I hadn't expected this to be that dull. Such events are no longer what they used to be these days. But...” He held his outstretched hand in front of John's nose, on which lay a small white pill.

“Seriously?”

“Sure. Either that or we leave.”

“Hmpf,” John made scornfully, and took the pill between two fingers. “I didn't sneak in here at the peril of my life just to leave again so soon. It can only get better.” 

“Good man,” Bill grinned, and watched John taking the pill. 

John felt the effects almost immediately. The mix wasn't strong (obviously, Bill seemed to have been sensible for once in his life, and didn't dare giving John Watson a drug that would let him lose all control and inhibitions in their arch enemies' house, thus endangering his life), but it was enough to made him look at this boring, stuffy party with a little more benevolence. He felt his pulse beat faster, and a pleasant euphoria flowed through John's entire body. The soft music suddenly seemed as if its bass was pounding through John's ears as if through cotton wool, and the dancing guests around him suddenly seemed much more intense. More attractive. Well, at least more interesting.

He looked at Bill, into his hazel eyes whose colour wasn't really recognisable any more because of his dilated pupils. The older boy grinned a little manically. 

“That one over there's hot,” his best friend declared suddenly. And with that, he was gone. John was too slow to protest, and when he finally did after all, Bill had already marched through the hall to some girl. The euphoria streaming through John's body ebbed away a bit when frustration and anger penetrated his pleasantly hazy condition. Cursing, he spun around, and left the hall, suddenly restless so as if a thousand ants crawled over his skin. His body burned, and he tugged at the silk cravat of his costume around his neck until he could finally undo it, and simply let it flutter to the ground. Hastily, he down his champagne in one go, and deposited on the next free surface. It didn't really help, he only got hotter. He had to get out of here. Purposeful, he made his way onto one of the balconies, out into the cool night air. 

Tearing his mask off his face, he leaned against the cold stone balustrade, breathing in deeply, while he looked out over the elaborately decorated garden with its huge fountain in its midst. Overcome with a sudden yearning to dunk his overheated body into the cool water, John jogged down the wide stairs into the garden and in the direction of the inviting basin as if on autopilot.

Inelegantly, he flopped down onto the stone rim, and dipped his hands into the cool water in relief. Moaning blissfully, he closed his eyes, and would have loved to lean back – if there had been a backrest.

“Boring party, isn't it.”

John startled at the dark, bored-sounding voice that suddenly sounded from the other side of the fountain. He quickly wiped his wet hands on his pants, and slid a bit around the edge of the fountain until he could see the owner of the voice.

When he saw the angelic creature that lounged, casually bored, on the wide edge of the fountain, his breath caught. His mouth went dry and his eyes became the size of teacups when he let his gaze wander over a long, slender body which was wrapped in an elegant black suit as had been in fashion in the 19th century. His gaze wandered further over elegant, snow-white hands, casually folded on a flat chest, up to an equally flawless white face framed by full black curls that made John feel like he had a young Greek god in front of him. And then his eyes; unnaturally bright, piercing eyes that seemed to look deep into his soul.

“Ehm, yeah... You're right,” he finally managed to stammer back while he rose as if in a trance, circling the fountain, and sat down next to him.

The strange boy sat up, and moved closer to John after he had sat down. His gaze seemed even more eerie through the lights on the ground of the fountain, lightening up their faces from below. The cat-like eyes narrowed estimatingly.

“You're high,” the stranger declared. “Ecstasy I'd say.” 

“Ehm... what?! Where...” 

The boy shrugged while John simply stared at him stupidly, his mouth hanging open in shock. “That's primary school lessons,” the other boy lectured haughtily and so impossibly bored that, instead of making John angry, it caused him to giggle. “Dilated pupils, increased body temperature and quickened pulse.” With one finger, he touched John's cheek blatantly, then his neck directly above his pounding carotid artery which, without the cravat, was completely at the other boy's mercy, naked and vulnerable. John had to swallow heavily, but then, the impish glint in those fascinating eyes seemed to yank him from his awestruck frozen state. The feather-like touch of the warm finger tips seemed to burn him, so that he flinched violently. 

He sat up a little straighter, and tried to appear as cool as possible.

“You think you're oh so mature and clever, hm? With your fancy suit and... and your cheekbones.” John suddenly grinned at him while he overcame his shyness, and advanced on the taller boy who, suddenly unsure, backed away slowly. On and on until he finally bumped against one of the four heavy, huge stone vases that were placed strategically around the fountain so that there was no escape for him any more. “Though you're only... how old? Sixteen? Definitely not older than I.” 

Angrily, Sherlock suddenly sat up straighter as well, and looked down onto this impertinent boy that had skidded after him... directly into his heavenly blue eyes... “Fifteen,” he pressed forth through gritted teeth. “I'm fifteen.” Once more, he haughtily raised his chin, and looked down his nose at the other. “And I'm glad for it because it alarms me how infantile one can behave at the age of seventeen.” 

“Hey,” John protested, but then started thinking. “How do you know that I'm seventeen?”

“Please,” the other boy replied scornfully. “Your hair cut and your shirt's lapels paint a crystal-clear picture.” 

“I'm wearing a pirate costume,” John countered disbelievingly. “What's that supposed to tell about me personally?” 

Sherlock eyed his counterpart, and he found that he looked very... daring in this costume. He had always had a weakness for pirates. “A disguise is always a reflection of oneself.”

“Aha. And what could your Oscar Wilde disguise possibly tell me about you?”

Sherlock avoided his gaze for a moment. “Nothing that should interest you.”

John studied the taller boy for a long moment. Then, he shook his head and smiled. “That was brilliant,” he said exuberantly.

Sherlock blinked. “Ehm... excuse me?!”

“That. What you just did. That was brilliant.”

Even under the light of the fountain, John could make out the soft blush that suddenly covered the poshly-pale cheeks. “D-do you... really think so?” 

“Sure. That was extraordinary.”

Sherlock averted his gaze so that the other boy couldn't see how red he was. And how happy he was about the compliment. “That's not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off, freak.”

John frowned thoughtfully. “People are so dumb, they don't recognise  genius even if it jumps them and bites them in the arse.”

Sherlock escaped a shy giggle.

“And they obviously don't recognize beauty when they have it right in front of them,” John continued to whisper without really being aware of what his mouth was saying without his brain's permission. “Otherwise, you would hardly be alone our here, but a swarm of admirers would be at your feet.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked back to the older boy, and he suddenly curled his nose thoughtfully. “You're high,” he repeated bitterly. “Your opinion can not be taken seriously.”

“What?! But...” John put his hands on his hips in confusion. “I'm not that high.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock whispered, taking a shaky breath as the older boy moved a little closer to him. Sherlock raised his hands, and put them on one muscular chest to keep the other boy at a distance, but the proximity of the other, and the feeling of the heavy velvet and brocade of the costume under his fingers paralysed him. Comforting heat flowed through the young man, and he started to tremble all over. He looked helplessly into deep blue eyes.

John licked his dry lips. “Now it's your pupils that are dilated,” he whispered.

Sherlock swallowed. “Nonsense, you're just imagining that,” he said, but the intended cutting tone of his voice was rather shaky.

John shook his head. Then he looked down at the elegant, white hands as he felt strong fingers claw into the front of his costume. Grinning, he looked up again. “Don't tell me my costume turns you on.”

“I love pirates,” Sherlock breathed, ultimately unable to deny anything. “Since I've been a child.”

John's grin widened. “My luck then.”

Then he bridged the last few inches between them, and pressed his lips to the other boy's.

Sherlock froze, his wide eyes staring helplessly at the other.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock broke away from the other boy, equally relieved and annoyed, and stared at his surprised counterpart for a long moment.

“I have to go,” he exclaimed out, rushed and breathless, and jumped up.

It took John a few moments to understand what had just happened. Only then did he recall the female voice that had echoed through the garden. “Sherlock,” he whispered. That was the name of his Eros, his Apoll. Inspired by his luck, he jumped up, giggling, and quickly followed Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” he called after him. The other boy, whose long legs had given him a head start, stopped abruptly. But he did not turn to John, so he had to hurry to the younger boy, and circle him in order to finally be able to look him in the face again.

Sherlock didn't want to look at him. His gaze was persistently fixed onto the gravel path at their feet, his alabaster cheeks red.

“Hey,” John said gently, carefully placing his fingers under Sherlock's chin to lift it up. At last, the other boy struggled to look at John, his eyes stubborn and his cheeks still red. John thought he looked lovely.

“When will I see you again?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I don't know,” he pressed out.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson called again. He pushed past John.

“I have to go,” he gasped again.

And he had hurried away before John could stop him.

Wildly determined, John gave chase without taking his hawk-eye away from the boy running away. He watched Sherlock stop by the older lady who had called him, and exchanged a few words with her while she threw a less discreet look in John's direction. Sherlock pulled her into the house, irritated. Hurry, but calm, John followed.

He followed them into the great ballroom where the elderly woman led Sherlock up the wide staircase. On the first gallery, Violet Holmes was waiting.

John stopped thunderstruck, and stared up. With every second that passed, his heart seemed to break a little more. Because when he had to watch helplessly as Violet Holmes smiled sweetly and took Sherlock's hand as he kissed her cheek obediently, John suddenly became aware of the terrible truth: The love of his life was the youngest son of Violet Holmes, the mortal enemy his own clan.

His stomach seemed to clench in pain and his heart shattered like broken glass as he continued to watch Sherlock, his sweet, adorable Sherlock being presented to another man. John looked at the other young man at whom Violet Holmes smiled so brightly and to whom she held out Sherlock's hand. Victor Trevor. Victor bloody Trevor of all people, the numb nut. John wanted to burst into tears and die of jealousy.

A little glimmer of hope sparked up in John at the disinterested, bored look that Sherlock gave Victor. And then! John's heart leapt up into his throat. Sherlock's attentive, piercing look wandered around the room, discreetly searching until he found John. A mischievous glitter crept into his mercury-colored eyes and a shy, bashful blush onto his cheeks.

John felt like he was floating on clouds.

While Sherlock let his almost feverish gaze wander around the room looking for his pirate, he was overly aware of the uncomfortable warmth of Victor Trevor's hand which held his firmly. If he had to endure that for ten more seconds longer, then... Wait! There he was, in the middle of the crowd, staring up at Sherlock. Sherlock's heart jumped euphorically when their eyes met. And just like that, he no longer felt Victor's disgusting paw around his hand. He no longer noticed anything around him. His world seemed to have narrowed on that nondescript blond boy down there at the bottom of the stairs who hopefully looked up at him. When their eyes met, Sherlock became aware of the terrible warmth that was certain to paint his heated cheeks bright red for everyone to see.

“Oh,” Mummy purred next to him, and Sherlock looked away from his pirate to irritably point it at Mummy.

“What?!” he snapped gruffly. She didn't mind his brisk demeanour but simply stroked his cheek instead. “You don't have to blush if Mr. Trevor compliments you. He can be really shy sometimes,” the latter was cooed at Victor, her mask-like, false smile firmly in place.

Compliment?! What compliment? As if he had been paying attention to Victor's senseless drivel. He had been busy with more important things.

But now he felt angry as the blood rushed into his cheeks again. How could Mummy expose him so?

“Why don't you boys dance with each other,” Mummy continued Sherlock's humiliation. “I know how much you love dancing and how little opportunity you have, Sherlock.”

With extreme reluctance, Sherlock let Victor drag him down the stairs onto the dance floor (he was tempted to resist, but that way, he came down to the dance floor again, closer to his pirate, and was given the opportunity to examine him closer). He almost stumbled because his eyes met once more with that of a certain blonde boy and he couldn't tear himself away.

Oh yes, he loved dancing (why the hell did Mummy know about it?!), but certainly not with a blunderhead like Victor Trevor. What would he give now to be able to dance with his pirate! Even if it turned out that he had two left feet, it would have been the most heavenly dance of Sherlock's life, and he would have preferred that over Victor's stiff, perfect style that had been drilled into him since childhood.

That woman, Sherlock thought sourly as Victor pulled him into his arms, and he kept glaring up at Mummy. One day, he would pay her back for this!

The flash of a golden head of hair whenever Sherlock turned to the stairs made his anger fade into the background for the time being. Instead, he tried to catch the other boy's gaze as often as possible. The jealousy that he could read in those clear blue eyes was deeply satisfying and left a comforting feeling in his stomach area at the same time. He had to cling to this for the duration of this charade of a dance.

John still stood in the same place. His feet seemed frozen, while the only thing he could do was not to take his eyes off Sherlock for a second.

And resist the urge to storm onto the dance floor, tear Sherlock out of Victor's arms, and continue the dance with the black-haired boy.

Suddenly, he was roughly grabbed and pulled away from the dance floor. He fought against it with all his might, even when he realized that it was Bill who was pulling him away in such a brutal way.

“Bill! What...”

“Sebastian recognized you,” his friend hissed. “You idiot don't have your mask on any more!”

This brought John back to his senses with a bang. He stopped resisting, and let Bill drag him further away. His eyes darted wildly through the room and indeed; Sebastian Wilkes dived down the wide stairs, his face contorted with rage.

John quickly took to his heels.

“What are you doing standing around unmasked in front of the stairs right in front of the whole Holmes clan?” Bill gasped breathlessly as they dived out of the hall and finally out of the house.

John pressed his lips together with red cheeks and shook his head.

Sherlock blinked in confusion because with the next turn, he had lost sight of the object of his desire. His head whirled around trying to find his pirate again. His heart sank as he watched his new acquaintance frantically be dragged across the room by another young man.

“Is everything okay?”

Victor's voice penetrated Sherlock's shocked mind, and only then did he realize that they had stopped dancing as he stared after the blond boy.

He looked at Victor, shaken. Then, he stammered a brisk “Excuse me” and sprinted off. He was just about to storm out of the ballroom into the reception hall, from where he just saw velvet coattails wafting through the front door, when suddenly, a pair of hands gripped him relentlessly, forcing him to stop.

“Sherlock,” Father Mike hissed in his ear.

“Let me go.” He desperately tried to wriggle out of the surprisingly strong grip of the overweight priest. In vain.

Mike jerked him around. “Sherlock, listen to me!” he asked urgently. “Forget that boy.”

Sherlock stared at the smaller man first in shock, then defiantly. “Why?!” Then, he continued to twist in Mike's grip.

“He is the son of the enemy!”

This stopped Sherlock short. He looked at Mike in shocked astonishment. “What?!” he breathed blankly.

“His name is John Watson. He is Doc Watson's son.”

“He is Doc Watson's son.”

Throughout the evening, this one sentence didn't want to leave him alone. He had spent the rest of the ball in a trance, unable to process anything of what was said to him. At the earliest opportunity, he had apologized, pretending to be tired, and hurried to his room. As if in a madness, he had torn the costume off his body and carelessly flung it to the floor, then crawled into his bed to lick his wounds.

Now, two hours later, Sherlock was still rolling around in his bed restlessly, but he just couldn't find a more comfortable position.

“You have to forget him,” he whispered firmly into the dark. He didn't know him at all. When he was sober, this boy was undoubtedly like everyone else who mocked Sherlock. And even if they had got to know each other better, the other boy would have quickly realized what kind of freak he had gotten himself acquanted with. Yes. It was better that way...

Suddenly, whether he wanted to or not, he was reminded of the sight of a mischievous grin and clear blue eyes watching him, yes, consuming him, so that the thought of that look alone made him hot... John... Such a simple name for such an exceptional young man. Because Sherlock couldn't fool himself. John Watson was not an ordinary boy. He wasn't like the others. How could he seriously consider for even one second that he would never want to see John again! And that John was a Watson... who cared. Sherlock didn't care. The childish feud of Mummy and Doc Watson didn't interest him in the slightest.

Much more important was: what if John only found him so attractive because of the drugs he used?!

Sherlock felt his stomach clench painfully at the horrible idea. After all, people did strange things when under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

At the thought, Sherlock desperately buried his face in his pillows to stifle his hyperventilating breathing, and let his tears fall onto the fine white linen.

The next morning, Sherlock was tired and in a bad mood. He needed little sleep in the first place, and if he was intrigued by a fascinating thought, he could get by with only a minimum amount of sleep for days, but the fears that had consumed him last night were neither fascinating nor in any way positive. They were just terrible and were tiring to ponder, and he would have preferred to just erase them from his memory. Unfortunately, he couldn't do that because then he would have forgotten John, and that was out of the question.

Grumpily, he crawled out of bed, dressed, and endured breakfast and Mummy's happy talk before he left the house without another word (he didn't want to risk having to endure Alexander's insuffering presence again when he was suffering already).

He knew the way to church in his sleep now, which was why Sherlock didn't have to concentrate on the way, but could wallow in his misery.

He was so caught up in his own head that he almost collided with someone when he turned the corner a hundred yards from his home.

“Watch where...” All the remaining words got stuck in his throat when he saw who he had almost collided with.

“John,” he breathed.

The other boy gave him a pained smile. “So you know who I am. And you even remember me.”

Sherlock felt the blood rush into his cheeks. Angrily, he waved his hand dismissively. “Of course I remember you.” He lowered his eyes and continued more quietly, “And yes, I know who you are. Just as you undoubtedly must know who I am.”

“Hmhm,” John said, depressed. “But I don't care what problems our families have with each other,” he clarified resolutely.

A tiny glimmer of hope sparked up in Sherlock, and he looked up hopefully. “I feel the same way,” he replied casually after catching himself a little.

“Okay, fine.” John suddenly looked as relieved as Sherlock felt, but the uncomfortable atmosphere between them persisted. “But our families... we could get into real trouble...”

Overcome with sudden anger, Sherlock drew himself uo to his full height in front of the other boy. “Then, why are you here at all, you coward?!”

John tried to defend himself, but lowered his shoulders in defeat. “Despite everything, I wanted to see you again.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, a little appeased, but he still didn't quite understand why John should take such a risk just because of him, Sherlock.

“Fool,” John said, embarrassed. “Because I like you, that's why. I thought that would have gotten through your brilliant head last night.”

“You were high,” Sherlock spat contemptuously. “Nobody with a clear mind would...”

“But I'm not everyone,” John interrupted heatedly, and took a step towards Sherlock so that the tips of their noses almost touched.

“No,” Sherlock had to admit, suddenly breathless now that they were so close, and he only would have to tilt his head a little to...

He shook his head angrily. “No, you're really not. Otherwise, you wouldn't have been that interesting to me.”

“I'm interesting to you?” John raised an eyebrow, amused, but couldn't hide the overjoyed pride in his voice.

Sherlock then wrinkled his nose haughtily, trying desperately not to blush again in John's presence. He hadn't really wanted to say that. “Of course you're... normal, but there's still something about you.” Sherlock watched the other boy speculatively under lowered lids, but immediately lowered his eyes again when he was confronted with John's broad, amicable grin that he found so charming that his legs suddenly started to shake.

Briskly, he braced himself, and rushed past John, irritated.

“Hey,” John called, jogging after him, laughing. “Everything is okay. You don't have to run away right away.”

“I don't,” Sherlock insisted, not slowing down his pace, so John had to make an effort to keep up with him. “I'm just busy.”

“Oh, where do you wanna go?”

“To church.”

John involuntarily escaped an amused snort. “Really now. Mummy's little darling goes to church every Sunday?!”

Sherlock's icy look made him immediately regret his mocking comment. “Hey, I'm sorry!” he cried in panic, and grabbed Sherlock's arm who was still speeding up, and didn't pay any more attention to John.

Sherlock was tempted to yank himself free, but stopped and was getting ready to chase John out of his life with a few cutting, precise words. But before he could do that, John let go of his sleeve, stepped closer, and briskly put his arms around Sherlock's waist that suddenly left Sherlock speechless. John's honestly repentant look didn't necessarily help to stay being angry at the older boy.

“I'm honestly sorry, Sherlock,” John reaffirmed. “I just didn't think of you as a religious person.”

For a moment, Sherlock managed to keep his anger going, but then, his tense shoulders sagged, and he looked at John a little mischievously under lowered lids. “I'm not. You will hardly find a less religious person than me.” He leaned closer to John conspiratorially. “But I'm not going to mass or confession,” he whispered. “It's just my excuse for Mummy.”

“And where are you going instead?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I'm going to church, that's not a lie. Father Mike studied medicine and chemistry before becoming a priest. He teaches me and helps me with my experiments. I couldn't do that at home. Being a chemist is not necessarily a job that Mummy imagines for me. She wants me to study law or go into politics like my brother.”

“I know what you mean. I don't care about the family business either. I want to be a doctor and that's it.”

“Doctor!” Sherlock exclaimed enthusiastically, and suddenly released himself from the intimate hug they had been in rought out on the open road. Doctor and pirate. It got better and better! “Then, I can use your skills at some point.” Enthusiastically, he gestured wildly with his arms.

John squinted at the taller boy in surprise. “Me? What does a chemist want with a doctor?”

“I wasn't going to stay with chemistry forever,” Sherlock suddenly said, more serious and dignified. “It is only a means to an end. When I have finished my studies, if I stay through to the end that is, because honestly, who needs a degree. Two or three semester should be enough to learn everything worth knowing... and then, I will become a Consulting Detective.”

“Consulting what?”

“Consulting Detective. I'll be the only one in the world since I invented the profession. Whenever the police are at their wits' end, which is practically always, they will turn to me. And a doctor and adrenaline junkie would be just right for me.”

“This is fantastic,” John blurted out admiringly. “You have already planned for everything haven't you. And that at fifteen. But...” John frowned. “How do you know I'm an adrenaline junkie?”

Sherlock looked at him lecturingly, and looked him up and down. “I said a disguise is always a reflection of oneself.”

“Wa-” John paused, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. “Just because I was wearing a pirate costume at a costume party yesterday, does that tell you that I love danger?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Naturally.”

“Remarkable,” breathed John, and Sherlock promptly blushed again.

“Apart from the fact that no normal person with a minimum of self-preservation instinct would march into the proverbial lion's den,” Sherlock went on to cover up his embarrassment.

John shrugged. “You're probably right. But you have to admit that it was worth it.”

Sherlock blushed again promptly, this time much more violently than before. “Maybe,” he mumbled, avoiding John's look.

The latter decided to let the other boy off the hook, and changed the subject with a grin. “You still haven't told me what your costume was supposed to say about you.”

Sherlock squirmed for a moment, then evasively replied, “Let's go have lunch, John.”

John was prepared to accept the avoidance tactic for the moment. “Surer. Why not. But didn't you want to go to church?”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “That can wait.”

John followed Sherlock into the city centre where they strolled side by side through the shopping streets. Neither of them dared to take the other by the hand, but they walked so close together that their shoulders brushed more than once.

Sherlock wasn't actually hungry, although he had been the one to suggest eating, but at least he didn't have to let John persuade him when he tried to seduce him with ice cream. He wouldn't admit it, but sweets made him weak. And John had realised this promptly – although he was far away from having Sherlock's abilities – which was why he now strolled alongside the river Thames with a smug smile, both with an ice cream cone in hand.

“What did you want to become when you were a child?” John suddenly asked into the pleasant silence between them, and leaned forward on the bench on which they were now sitting. He watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he licked his ice cream.

Sherlock stared thoughtfully at the water for a few moments, the tip of his tongue slipping out between his lips, absentmindedly lapping at his ice cream with delicate, graceful, cat-like licks.

John had to swallow hard at the sight.

“Pirate,” the taller boy replied finally.

“Now everything becomes clear to me,” John grinned, shoving the last of his ice cream cone into his mouth.

Sherlock shrugged. “After that, I wanted to be a professional violinist, but my father, and after his death, Mummy were against it.” Sherlock drifted into melancholy silence.

“I'm sorry,” John muttered. “Are you any good?”

“As a pirate or with the violin?” Sherlock couldn't help but feel melancholy.

John laughed loudly and shook his head, and at some point, Sherlock laughed too, suddenly free of his depressed mood.

The two young men laughed until their laughing weakened into breathless giggles and finally tapered out.

“Yes,” Sherlock finally answered seriously. “I am good.”

“Hmhm, why am I not surprised? I played the clarinet once, but never very well.”

Sherlock replied with a knowing sound. “I imagine that you are a much more talented rugby player.”

“How... oh, no matter. Yes. In rugby, I'm pretty... assertive.” John grinned mischievously at Sherlock who returned the grin.

“It's getting late,” Sherlock said suddenly with regret. “Shall we go?”

John felt the same regret, but nodded, and they got up.

“You could come to training if you want,” John suggested casually as they slowly made their way back. “Tuesdays after six, I can text you the address.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock replied, and John gave him a searching sideways glance at how to interpret this answer. But he couldn't find a satisfactory answer on Sherlock's face. Instead, he saw something else in the expression on Sherlock's face and he stopped.

Sherlock also stopped, and looked down in amazement at John who gave him a strange look, swallowing hard, and suddenly red in the face.

“You, uh,” John stammered, uncertain for a second, but then resolutely stood on tiptoes, and kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock shivered pleasantly when he suddenly felt the tip of John's tongue on his lips that licked away the rest of the ice cream.

He was as if frozen when John pulled away from him again, but only for a split second, so that, before the other boy was firmly back on both feet again, he had quickly gripped John's face and kissed him stormily.

Both young men groaned, and Sherlock felt his knees soften again as John wrapped his arms tightly around him, and pulled him close, regardless of who saw them here on the Thames promenade. Sherlock shivered as he felt John's rugby-steeled body pressed against his from knees to shoulders.

“John,” he whimpered against John's lips, and the older boy pulled away from him, struggling to suppress his overly complacent, happy grin.

“Yes, Sherlock?” he asked innocently.

“I,” the other boy stammered. After a few seconds during which he was unable to think straight but could only blink violently, the intended words burst out of him, “Do that again!”

Now John couldn't and wouldn't hold back his broad grin, and he pulled Sherlock down again.

“Sherlock. I wasn't expecting you so late in the afternoon.” Mike blinked at him in surprise. He hadn't really expected Sherlock this Tuesday at all.

“I won't stay. But you have to do something for me.”

Mike frowned, but listened patiently to what Sherlock had to say.

“So, do I understand that correctly,” the priest finally began slowly. “You want me to lie for you so you can meet John Watson.” Mike glared at him reproachfully while Sherlock nodded contentedly.

“You are aware that I am a priest and that the church has a certain attitude towards lying.”

“Please,” Sherlock spat reproachfully. “Don't play the moralizer now, Father. You are not necessarily the best example for sincerity.”

Mike gritted his teeth audibly as they both knew that Sherlock alluded to Mike's complicity during their experiments, the inevitable consequence of which being that he had lied to Violet Holmes several times so as not to blow Sherlock's cover.

“Alright,” he pressed forth. “But I'm only doing it for your sake.”

“I'm touched,” Sherlock replied unfazed. “You'll see, everything will go as planned. Nobody will ask after me anyway. When I'm through, I'll simply come back here to let the driver pick me up.”

“From your lips to God's ears that this goes well in the long run,” the cleric mumbled with a heavy sigh. 

“I never said anything about the long run. For now, it's just for one evening.”

“Hm,” made Father Mike. “While we're on it... do you really think this acquaintance with John Watson is all that wise? Both of you could get into serious trouble.”

Irritated, Sherlock threw his arms up in the air. “Not you, too. I already told John: I don't care about this feud of our families'. I won't let them destroy my life. And now, if you will excuse me, Father, I have a date.”

And with that, Sherlock spun around on his heel, and didn't give Mike any chance for further protest.

“What do you think about Italian?” Sherlock asked instead of a greeting when John joined him after his training.

Dignified, John managed to keep in his exuberant happiness that Sherlock had actually come, and instead thought about the other boy's idea for a moment while wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel. “Sounds good. Do you know a good Italian restaurant?”

“The best,” Sherlock corrected confidently, which elicited a grin from John.

“Great. I'll grab a quick shower first, then we can go.”

Sherlock watched as John disappeared inside. His absence gave Sherlock the opportunity to acclimatise himself a bit. 

He was at least as flushed as John, but for completely different reasons. That morning, when he had decided to accept John's invitation to come to training, he hadn't thought that the sight of John in short training pants would gobsmack him like that. How his compact, muscular legs carried him purposefully across the pitch as he shouted instructions to the other players did things with Sherlock's state of mind that he had never known before. John would be a born soldier.

A pleasant shudder ran through Sherlock at the thought. Soldier was an adequate alternative to pirate. 

Sherlock flinched in surprise when John returned a while later, freshly showered, and yanked him out of his daydreaming. Scrutinising, he let his gaze wander over John, and inhaled the smell of his freshly showered body. He stuck his hands deep into the pockets of his coat to withstand the temptation to brush his fingers through John's still slightly moist hair that turned a dark blond while being wet. 

“Shall we?”

Sherlock nodded, a little dazed about John's enthusiastic question.

Unerringly, he led John through the streets until they reached Angelo's where Sherlock blushed fiercely, John only a little, when then bulky Italian placed a candle between them onto the table for a more romantic setting.

“It's alright,” John smiled, and took his hand after they had ordered. “It's okay to be nervous.” 

“Of course it's okay,” Sherlock replied brusquely, and hesitantly closed his fingers around John's hand. “I'm not nervous,” he clarified grumblingly. “Why should I be nervous.” 

John smiled to himself, but didn't reply anything. 

After dinner, which they had used to get to know each other better, John followed Sherlock through evening London's streets, their hands tightly intertwined, and his whole attention focused onto the graceful boy next to him, so that he only noticed where they were when they already stood in front of the church in Mayfair. For a moment, John blinked in confusion.

“What are we doing here?” he started, irritated, but Sherlock cut him short with a shake of his head. 

“I took precautions, John,” Sherlock explained. “Mummy knows that it could get later since I help Father Mike with the preparations for a project. I even let the driver take me here before I went to the rugby field.”

“Clever,” John had to admit, and threw a contemplative gaze at the peaceful church. “But don't you think you mother will become suspicious some day?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I doubt it. She's only interested in me when I can be of any use to her.” 

“Hm,” John only made because he didn't want to spoil the evening by talking about their families.

“Well, here we are then,” John stated the obvious since he didn't know what he was supposed to say otherwise to delay having to say goodbye already while, at the same time, he deeply lost himself in Sherlock's eyes which made him a little tongue-tied.

Sherlock had lost himself in John's eyes as well so much that he didn't even think to reprimand the older boy for stating the obvious. 

“It's late,” Sherlock murmured as if from far away, without breaking the intense eye contact to John. “I should go now.”

John nodded absent-mindedly. “Yes, you should.”

then, he suddenly seemed to wake up from his trance, put his hands around Sherlock's neck, and forced the other boy back against the wall of the church area while his lips crashed against Sherlock's. Instinctively, Sherlock raised his arms, and wrapped them around John's neck. Moaning in bliss, he returned the kiss enthusiastically. 

After some time, John released Sherlock's lips, and instead covered Sherlock's face and neck with kisses like a boy possessed.

“Oh John,” Sherlock moaned, and clawed his fingers into John's shoulders tightly when John eventually attached himself to a spot on Sherlock's neck like a leech.

The more John worked Sherlock's neck, the weaker the hold Sherlock had on John's shoulder got, the more gasping and louder his breathing got, the faster his dopamine- and serotonin-dosed blood rushed through his veins until he eventually, like the victim of a vampire, weakly sank into John's arms when the other boy let go.

Satisfied, John examined his work. His grin grew even wider when he realised the whole extent of satisfaction he had given the other boy. “Wow, your neck's really sensitive.”

Sherlock grinned weakly, and in a spontaneously daring move pressed his rock-hard erection against John's. Both boys drew in a sharp breath. “Never realised,” Sherlock murmured, and couldn't resist to pull John into another intimate kiss.

Then, he shoved the smaller boy away. “So, I really have to go now,” Sherlock explained all businesslike. “People will talk.”

“People do nothing else!” John burst out, taken by surprise. “Sherlock!” he whined in frustration.

Sherlock met John's lost gaze pityingly, and leaned down for a last kiss tonight. “Think me prudish, John, but I don't want to lose my virginity all in public in the shadow of a church of all places. That would bizarre, even for me.” He winked at John, and then sauntered away with a dramatically waving coat.

For a moment, John stood like frozen, completely shocked – in the positive... well, partly – before he forced his leaden legs into motion, going home with a bright grin. 

Sherlock looked after John discretely until the other boy had disappeared around the corner. Then, he pulled out his mobile to call Alexander. He could have walked, but when he got the chance to let the Holmes driver work for once, and so late in the evening as well, then Sherlock thought it an adequate compensation for the man's often impudent and obviously offensive behaviour towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock's mobile vibrated after terminating the call. 

_ We should really talk more closely about what you said earlier – JW _

He grinned while he waited in front of the church for the car. 

Neither John nor Sherlock could withstand the temptation to see each other again the next day. For now, Sherlock could still use the excuse of helping prepare a charity project until somebody noticed eventually. Until then, he could meet with John for a few hours in the following evenings without much risk.

Some evenings, John dragged him to the cinema or to some other activity teenager their age apparently did (wether or not he wanted to, Sherlock had to admit there were worse ways to spend his time; and since John was with him, ultimately, it didn't matter what they did), but sometimes, they just sat at Angelo's for hours or on a park bench on the warmer evenings, simply talking. During the course of these conversations, the two young men outlined a relatively concrete concept about what their future together should look like. Against their families' wished, John would study medicine, and Sherlock chemistry so that, afterwards, they could solve crimes together in the most efficient way. Since they were together now, giving each other security and support, nothing would ever stop them. 

One evening, after John had said goodbye to Sherlock through a very thorough, passionate kiss in front of the church, Sherlock met a worryingly serious Father in the rectory who glared at him in a mix of accusation and worry.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, involuntarily a little alarmed, and he scrutinised the cleric critically who looked pretty flushed and upset, fumbling at the top buttons of his collar tensely.

“Sebastian was here to pick you up at your mother's request, that's what happened,” Father Mike snapped heatedly. 

Sherlock's heart dropped into his boots, but he didn't want to let it show. “Well,” he replied with a firm voice that belied his inner state. “Obviously, you got rid of him.”

“Barely so. I told him you would run an errand for me which could take up some time, and to keep him form waiting, I started telling him about our project for so long until I brought him to tears with boredom, so that he left eventually. Talking about charitable projects with him – even fake ones – has always been the best method of getting rid of him after all.”

Sherlock could only agree with the Father, in that regard, his cousin was pretty predictable. Relieved, he drew in a deep, shaky breath. Mike couldn't really imagine how grateful Sherlock was to him that he had stepped into the breach for him like that. His curt “thanks” didn't express the amount of relief and gratefulness he felt even in the slightest. 

Pacing around agitatedly like a caged tiger, Father Mike talked himself into a rage. “I told you to be more careful. One day, this could end very ugly. For us both. You get me into one Hell of a mess with your mother if she finds out.”

“But...”

“But of course I'll still help you,” Mike added with a sigh, and finally stopped to look at Sherlock who, for a split-second, had looked so heartbreakingly helpless and desperate. “That goes without saying.”

Once more, Sherlock let out a relieved sigh, and grinned at Mike more self-confident as he felt. “There we go. Nothing can possibly go wrong.”

After calling the car from the rectory, Sherlock left the house a few minutes later, his head held high. On his way to the car, his lofty self-confidence vanished though with every step he took, and suddenly, Sherlock realised one thing painfully: Only because he and John didn't care about who they were, their families still cared.

Mrs. Hudson stopped short, bend forward in her armchair, faster than Sherlock could react, and brushed the collar of his shirt aside. “Sherlock, dear. What's that?!”

Judging by her impertinent grin, she knew very well what  _ that _ was. Therefore, Sherlock didn't deign to honour that with an answer. Stubbornly, he rubbed the polishing rag even more firmly over his violin. 

“You met someone,” Mrs. Hudson cooed without being bothered that he didn't take part in the conversation. “Oh!” she then exclaimed, and excitedly clapped her hands. “Now, don't tell me it's this dashing young man I saw you at the ball with.” 

Sherlock felt his cheeks heating, but he nodded without looking up from his work.

Mrs. Hudson squealed, enraptured. “I'm so happy for you, Sherlock.” She winked at him cheekily. “You met again, I take it, hm?”

“Yes,” he whispered, holding back the snappy “obviously”.

“Oh dear. Why the long face. Come on, tell me everything. What's his name?”

For a moment, Sherlock paused thoughtfully with his work, but then, he looked up to Mrs. Hudson seriously. “John,” he explained with a firmer voice than he felt. “John Watson.”

The grin died on Mrs. Hudson's face, and she put a hand onto her chest in shock. “Oh dear,” she breathed.

Pointedly casually, Sherlock shrugged, and then continued polishing his violin. “Well, me and my luck, right,” he joked bitterly. 

There was now holding back for his nurse any more. She dashed from her armchair to perch herself onto the armrest of Sherlock's. Exuberantly but incredibly gentle, she pulled him into her arms. The young man let it happen that she pulled him against her chest, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, relieved that now there finally was someone who knew. Someone he could trust. 

“I'm so sorry, my dear,” she mumbled compassionately while she caressed his black locks.

“Mycroft was right,” he growled bitterly although Mrs. Hudson wasn't sure if Sherlock was so bitter because the young man had to, teeth-gnashingly, admit that his older brother could be right or if it was because of what Mycroft had said.

“With what, dear?”

“Caring isn't an advantage. Love even less.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Mrs. Hudson twittered reprovingly. “Your brother is an old grinch who has no idea.” 

Sherlock smiled spitefully in the cover of her motherly arms.

“Love,” Mrs. Hudson continued to explain, is the best thing that will ever happen to you in life. Provided the one you love returns your feelings.”

“He does,” Sherlock insisted.

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Judging by the state of your neck, I gathered as much.”

Sherlock blushed furiously, and buried his face in her shoulder while she laughed. 

Since Sherlock couldn't always use the church as an excuse to meet with John, Mrs. Hudson, brilliant as she sometimes could be, had the perfect solution in the form of the vacant flat B in 221 Baker Street that she owned.

“Meeting there is safer – and more comfortable – than being out constantly, always being at risk of getting spotted together.” 

Ignoring her suggestive wink, Sherlock pounced on that plan ecstatically. Still having to explain his frequent absence somehow, he told Mummy that he had agreed to help Mrs. Hudson renovate 221B. The only downside was that during the meeting with John, Mrs. Hudson had to be at least in the house, in her rarely used flat A in 221 to make the alibi completely waterproof, which was why John needed some persuasion. The other boy was uncomfortable knowing that only one floor separated them from Sherlock's old nanny, while their relationship was slowly but surely developing and deepening physically. The first time they'd slept together, John had only been able to face Mrs. Hudson with a tomatoe-red head while Mrs. Hudson had grinned knowingly.

But aside from the initial inconvenience, they were happy here in Baker Street. Here, they could be free and themselves. And they could be together safely. It was fascinating to see how Sherlock willingly crawled out of his shell when they were among themselves. He was almost a different person... But just almost. At heart, he was still the ingenious but eccentric boy who didn't quite understand the world and in return wasn't understood by the world even less. Sometimes it seemed to John that Sherlock really didn't belong in this world.

But one thing John knew for sure: No matter if he became a Consulting Detective or a mad genius of a chemical professor (Sherlock teaching, yeah, sure; John could see it so clearly before his inner eye that he couldn't suppress an involuntary snicker at the absurd thought), or maybe even lead violin at the London Philarmonic Orchestra, he would shine brighter than a supernova, and John hoped that he would have the privelige to be at his side during every one of these steps. 

And he would do everything to make sure of that. Even...

“Run away?” Sherlock looked up from his spring rolls to scrutinize him with a sceptically cocked eyebrow.

“Yes,” John confirmed with determination, his own meal forgotten for the moment. “They'll never be able to understand. So, if we simply vanish into thin air... Start a new life somewhere. Just the two of us.”

For a few moments, Sherlock contemplatevelystared into the flames of the fireplace they had made themselves comfortable in front of in the Baker Street flat. 

“They would find us,” he mumbled eventually.

“Rubbish. You're so clever, we'd just disappear without a trace if you take matters into your hands.”

But Sherlock shook his head. “Mycroft would find us,” he insisted. “If someone can find us, he can.”

“Oh,” John made, suddenly discouraged. He didn't know Mycroft Holmes personally, but he knew his reputation. And Sherlock had told him enough that John didn't doubt his words even for one second.

Suddenly angry and frustrated, he threw the chopsticks back into the carton in front of him. “Feud aside,” he exclaimed, upset. “This isn't the Middle Ages any more. As soon as we're of age, they can't dictate our lives any more, if they loke it or not.”

“You'll turn eighteen soon, yes, but it will take a while for me,” Sherlock reminded him.

John made a dismissive hand gesture. “That may be true. But you'll go to university soon regardless. When we visit the same uni, somewhere a few hundred miles away from here, nobody will know. 

Sherlock made a contemplative noise while he still stared into the flames so intensely that his eyes started to tear up. “That could work. But, John.” Finally, he tore his gaze away from the fire to look at John. For a few seconds, he couldn't see him while his eyes got used to the darkness again, and for a split-second, irrational panic rose up inside of him when he couldn't make John out any more. But then, after blinking heavily, John reappeared next to him gradually, like an epiphany, and Sherlock breathed out in relief. “Promise me,” he asked, John nodding readily. “Just promise me that we'll stay together, okay? Nothing can separate us.”

John, wo sensed the underlying panic in Sherlock, shuffled closer to him, and took him into his arms tightly. “I promise,” he whispered into Sherlock's locks, and closed his eyes for a moment to simply breath in his scent. “Nothing and nobody.” 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. A new driver. Then, Mycroft must have finally noticed the kind of looks Alexander had given his little brother. Seine Vermutung wurde bestätigt, als Sherlock nach seiner Rückkehr aus der Baker Street ins Wohnzimmer kam und dort seine Bruder in einem Sessel vorfand. Der ältere Holmes warf ihm einen vielsagenden Blick zu, dem Sherlock mit einer ebenso vielsagenden erhobenen Augenbraue erwiderte. Dann war das Thema erledigt. 

„Wie läuft der Wahlkampf?“, fragte er desinteressiert und ließ sich aufs Sofa fallen, auf dem er sich wie eine theatralische Jane Austen Heldin ausstreckte.

Mycroft smiled sweetly. “Splendid, brother dear.” 

Sherlock grunted sarcastically, but didn't open his eyes to look at his brother. “You souldn't turn up here so often. Mummy's feud with the Watson's harms your good reputation.”

“I'm touched about your concern, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied sardonically, “but it's good for publicity to show a strong family bond.”

“Since our family is such a paramount example for such an idyllic picture,” Sherlock scoffed, but Mycroft didn't let himself get worked up about that. 

“I admit, this may appear a bit precarious in our case, and delicate concerning our credibility because of this bothersome situation with the Watsons, but let me assure you, I am confident.” 

“Hmpf. You were always good with blinding people.”

Delicate silence was his brother's answer, and Sherlock imagined Mycroft pressing his lips together disapprovingly while he regained his equilibrium.

“And how do you fare, brother mine?” Mycroft instead changed the topic. “I have been told that you're awfully busy lately.”

Panic ran through Sherlock for a split-second, but on the outside, he didn't let it show. “I don't know what you're rambling about. I'm not busier than normal.”

The knowing silence roaring through the room caused Sherlock to open his eyes in alarm to glare at his brother searchingly. He was met with a knowing twinkle in cat-like eyes that were so similar to his own. A smug twitch played around the corners of Mycroft's mouth.

“I know very well what you're up to in your free time, but you have my word that I won't tell Mummy.”

An icy lump suddenly spread in Sherlock's stomach. He sat up, and stared at Mycroft as emotionless as possible.

The older Holmes shrugged. “Even when I never understood, her faith is incredibly important to her. It would break her heart to learn what you and Father Mike really get up to instead of caring for the poor and those in need.”

Sherlock breathed out in relief impalpably. A heavy burden suddenly seemed to lift from him. 

Mycroft didn't know. Sherlock and John were save. Let Mycroft think he had uncovered Sherlock's biggest secret; this erroneous belief could only be to Sherlock's advantage.

He nodded at his brother, grateful but curt. 

“If you are in need of my advocacy regarding your plans for the future, be insured of my help,” Mycroft assured. “She, as well as our father, never realised your talents. I did, and I want you to have the chance to do what makes you happy.” 

Sherlock blinked at his brother, taken by surprise. What was that supposed to be?! Was Mycroft, in his desillusioned election campaign, now bent on a reconciliation between them? 

Sherlock grunted patronisingly, and rose brisquely. “Good to know,” he replied snappishly, and breezed from the room. 

Bill silently stared at Johne after he'd burst into his friend's room. John stared back for a few moments, blinking in confusion. 

“I saw you,” Bill stated eventually, and he looked as if he announced a Job's message. In reality, John didn't really know what his best friend wanted from him. 

Bill had to have realised that as well because he crossed the room in three big strides, and slumped onto the bed. John turned in his office chair to face him. 

Uncharacteristically nervous and chipper, Bill raked his fingers through his hair. He didn't want to look at John.

“You're so secretive lately. And you're gone pretty often as well. Even your father noticed.” 

John's heart dropped to his knees all of a sudden. He swallowed heavily, and stared at Bill with wide eyes. He couldn't get out even one word. 

“Don't worry.” The other boy waved his hand reassuringly. “I told him we were out together. He actually didn't want to know what we're up to exactly.” 

John exhaled in relief. “Thanks, man.”

Bill nodded. “Nonetheless, I wanted to know what you're really doing, so I followed you the other day.”

Involuntarily, John grimaced because he knew what had to follow now.

“I didn't want to believe it at first. Despite being tight-lipped, I can see that you're happy. So, I thought that you must have met someone, and that you two meet in secret in that house in Baker Street, but... but when I saw who arrived shortly after you there...” Bill looked up pleadingly at John. “Please tell me that you fuck Violet Holmes' son.” 

Suddenly, John felt incredibly calm so that he could meet Bill's wilde, troubled eyes with a composed gaze of his own.

“I love him, Bill,” he explained in a calm voice.

Bill made a noise like a wounded animal, and flopped to the side onto the mattress. “Do you know what happens if your father learns of that?! Or his mother?! Do you want to throw your life away for an affair?”

Much to Bill's astonishment, even now, John stayed completely calm instead of going ballistic like he had back then when Bill had called Mary a slut.

“It's different this time, Bill,” John tried to explain. “He is...” He shrugged helplessly.

“My God,” Bill whispered, and stared at John with big eyes as he realised that it really was different this time. 

John shrugged helplessly again, and looked at his friend, pleading for his understanding. 

Bill scrutinised him for a few aditional moments before he nodded slowly. “Okay, I'll cover for you, John, but this won't work forever. I already have a bad conscience to lie to your father. And if he should really find out one day...” 

Both young men swallowed heavily at the thought. 

“Thanks, Bill,” John quickly repressed the thought. “I appreciate what you're doing for me.”

“Hmpf,” the other boy grumbled, a little embarrassed confronted with John's honest gratefulness. “I hope he's worth it.”

“He is,” John assured ardently.

Even if it was sufficient for the two men to draw back into a world of their own in Baker Street, there were days when they didn't want to hide, when they wanted to take a stroll through the city like every other couple, eating out or go to the cinema. And to be truthful, London was a megapolis. If they only avoided areas where they were at risk to run into members of the Watson or Holmes clan, they should be safe from being seen by anyone... 

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock froze when somebody called his name just when they stepped out of the cinema. John's whole body went rigid at once, prepared to defend Sherlock, no matter from whom. 

Sherlock didn't turn around to the other, so the stranger advanced on them instead. A brown-haired man suddenly stood in front of them, maybe in his early thirties even if the first grey hais were visible in the dark brown. Alert, hazel-coloured eyes scrutinised the two teenagers curiously. He seemed friendly and harmless even if a little tired, his grey coat and the suit visible beneath it were a little rumpled after a probably long day at work.

John heard Sherlock grate his teeth, but apart from that, he didn't seem concerned. So, they weren't facing a Holmes (the man's clothes should have been an indication already; the suit was clearly off the rack, and didn't reach the fashion-snobism the Holmes even John's father practised almost to an obsession). 

The man suddenly cocked an amused eyebrow being faced with Sherlock's grumpy reaction which somehow let John breath out in relief; it meant that the man knew Sherlock well, but nonetheless seemed to accept him like he was. John liked him on the spot for that whoever he was.

“Greg Lestrade,” the man introduced himself since Sherlock definitely wouldn't introduce them, and offered John his hand. 

Politely, John shook it. “John,” he replied a little reluctantly, thinking furiously where he'd heard the name Lestrade before.

“John Watson, I know.” Lestrade raised a pointed eyebrow, and didn't let go of John's hand for a moment. They stared at each other intensely for a moment, and for a split-second, the amicable pleasantness in Lestrade's eyes made way for a certain menacing rigour.

“Oh really, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock suddenly flared up. “Let go of him already.”

Lestrade let go of John's hand who yanked it back quickly. And there, John finally knew who stood in front of him. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The name had come up once or twice with John's father.

Lestrade threw him a disarming smile, and stepped back a little, his hands now buried in the pockets of his coat. For John, there was no doubt that the man had realised what was going on between him and Sherlock in an instant.

Sherlock scrunched up his nose, and grasped John's wrist to pull him away. “Give my love to my brother,” he snapped, and started moving.

“Don't worry, Sherlock, I won't tell him.”

Lestrade's unexpected words made Sherlock pause. He threw a hestitant look at the other man over his shoulder. Then, he nodded jerkily, and pulled John along, this time not as harried as before.

After they had left the Detective Inspector behind, Sherlock dropped down on a bench in a still rather crowded shopping street.

John scrutinised Sherlock. “He and your brother know eacht other? My father always says Lestrade's about the only cop who's not corrupt in London.”

Sherlock made a dismissive hand gesture. “He is. He just sleeps with my brother.”

John coughed when he swallowed his own breath in shock. “He does what?!”

Once more, Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, and sighed in a bored fashion. “They keep privacy and business strictly apart. Mummy doesn't know either. She thinks Mycroft dates his assistant, Anthea. The two of them live something like a sham relationship so that Mummy is happy.”

John could only make a stupid noice to that. “And... you believe him that he really keeps his mouth shut?” 

Sherlock inclined his head. “When he promises something, he'll keep that promise.”

A sudden grin twitched around John's mouth. “You like him.”

“Don't be silly, John.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily. 

“You do, no doubt.” Teasingly, John bumped his shoulder against Sherlock's, and laughed about the sudden blush on the other boy's cheeks.

“He is alright,” Sherlock admitted dignified.

“If you say so,” John chuckled, but didn't want to deepen the topic any more. Instead, he put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, and pulled him into a kiss.

Exasperated, John rolled his eyes, and tried to ignore Bill who begged him for his homework. He quickened his steps a bit, and tried to lose his friend who could be really quite persistent if it was about his laziness concerning his homework.

He was so busy with escaping Bill that John bumped into someone suddenly. When he looked up and opened his mouth to apologise, the word got stuck in his throat.

“Shit! What are you doing here?!” Bill snapped when he'd caught up with John, and realised wohm they were facing. 

“Sebastian,” John greeted Sherlock's cousin with a curt nod.

Sebastian sneered. “I still have a bill to settle with you, Watson.”

John's eyes widened incredulously. “With me?! I didn't know what kind of bill we would have to settle.”

The other man, much taller than John and a little bit older, drew himself up to his full height menacingly. “My aunt's mask ball.” He threw scornful look in Bill's direction. “Surely, that other guy was you, Murray.”

Bill just shrugged, grinning cheekily.

John rolled his eyes. “You don't really want to make a scene because of that, don't you. We haven't done anything wrong.”

“You were there, but yes, that's not the point. Not only.”

Sebastian audibly ground his teeth together which alarmingly reminded John of Sherlock. “Care to enlighten us, then?” John snapped a little impatient when Sebastian just stared at him hostilely for a few seconds. 

“You and Sherlock,” Sebastian finally stated. “I saw you yesterday.”

John wanted to open his mouth to assure him that he and Sherlock were just friends (even if just being friends would have been a sacrileg for their respective families), but Sebastian cut him off.

“Don't deny it, Watson,” Sebastian hissed. “What you two did on that bench was quite obvious.”

Angrily, John pressed his lips together. “You're right. Then let me tell you now that it's none of your business with whom your cousin spends his time.”

A disbelieving laugh burst out of Sebastian. “None of my business?! If he screws a Watson, then it is my business. It's an insult to our whole familiy.”

John squared his shoulders, and balled his hands to fists. “Did it ever occur to you that Sherlock doesn't care about this feud? And neither do I? Just stop bothering us with that.”

“You!” Sebastian took a threatening step toward John, but before the taller youth could come too close, Bill planted himself between them.

“He's right, Seb,” Bill stated with cocky streak around his mouth. “John's much too clever for something like that. And I don't have even have to mention your cousin, do I. This feud,” Bill indicated him and Sebastian, “is only for idiots like us. We Watson-boys just like to fight and the rest of your Holmes-clan isn't any better. You just hide behind your posh sense of honour, but truth is, you enjoy pipping someone.”

“Bill,” John hissed who watched with worry how Sebastian's face turned redder and redder.

But Bill didn't want to listen. He shook off John's hand the other boy had placed on his shoulder warningly. “What, it's true!”

“Just let's go.”

“Are you too much of a coward to take me on, Watson?” Sebastian taunted in disgust. “Fucking my little cousin, that you do, but you don't have the balls to fuck with a real man.”

John threw the other man an icy glare; regardless of his attempts to mediate, he was fed up with Sebastian. “You just heard it, didn't you; obviously, I'm too clever to beat the crap out of you. Something I can't really say about you. The intelligence in your family seems to have fallen to Sherlock's side of the family tree.” John narrowed his eyes, unable by now to hold back any more to goad Sebastian to the limit. “And by the way; Sherlock never complained about my balls.”

Sebastian looked as if he was short of bursting, that was how red he was in the face. All of a sudden, he lunged forward towards John. In the last moment, John saw the flash of a knife in Sebastian's hand – in that moment, he could possibly be glad that the other hadn't drawn a gun. 

Startled, he stumbled back. In the same moment, Bill pounced on Sebastian. The two wrestled with each other for a few moments during which John could simply stand by, watching helplessly. Like a caged tiger, he circled the two opponents anxiously. Suddenly, the knife clattered to the ground, but John couldn't get close enough to pick it up and take it out of harm's way.

Suddenly, Sebastian pushed Bill back, and drew a gun from the waistband of his trousers. Horrified, John watched Sebastian raise an arm to aim for Bill. It all happened as if in slow-motion.

The shot tearing through the air seemed deafening.

Bill froze, and stared at Sebastian with big eyes. Then, he looked down. A red stain seeped through his T-shirt, getting bigger and bigger by the second.

“Bill!” John screamed, and rushed to his best friend's side. He caught him as Bill's legs gave out under him. Close to hysteria, John held his friend tightly in his arms, calling his name with a shaky voice, over and over, while he pressed his hand onto the wound in Bill's stomach. 

With wide eyes, he looked up to Sebastian, equal parts accusing and seeking help, but the other man just stared down at Bill, thunderstruck, the gun forgotten in his hand. 

John looked around, but nobody was near. They were in some back alley, even if John couldn't really remember how they had gotten here. Nobody was in sight who could have gotten help. 

“It'll be all right,” he tried to calm Bill down who had let out a hoarse cry as he writhed in John's arms with pain. Bill grunted, and his breath became laboured. Like a man possessed, he stared up at Sebastian. 

“Go to Hell,” he croaked, and a horrible gurgling sound accompanied every breath the young man could still take. “All of you...”

Suddenly, his body became limp, he sagged into John's arms, and didn't move any more.

“Bill?” John asked hesitantly, anxiously. He looked into Bill's wide eyes that stared to the sky unmoving.

John felt his whole body starting to shake while at the same time, icy coldness seemed to paralyse him. He called Bill's name once more with a breaking voice while steadfastly staring at Bill's face, into his empty eyes, and stubbornly, futilely hoped for a miracle.

“I... Watson...”

Sebastian's voice, sounding as shocked as John's own, brought John out of his shocked state. He looked up to the other young man who still held the weapon in his hand, completely lost, and stared down at Bill's corpse.

“I'm sorry...”

Sebastian's shaky words let John see red suddenly. “ _ Now _ you're sorry?!” he hissed dangerously soft.

A helpless shrug was the answer.

With shaking fingers, he gently put Bill's body down. Then, he jumped up, and crashed into Sebastian. 

Sherlock tried to suppress the nervous trembling of his knee while he frantically looked for an excuse to leave the house. Somehow, he had a bad feeling the whole day. John didn't react to his text messages which was completely uncharacteristic for him. Probably, Sherlock tried to talk himself into believing, there was a completely harmless, logical explanation for that. John surely was together with his father, and didn't have any opportunity to send Sherlock a message, just like Sherlock himself. But nonetheless, he had to get out of here. He wanted to go to Baker Street, and wait there for John. 

But just this afternoon, Mummy had a seldom streak of sense of family which was why Sherlock as well as Mycroft had been forced to have tea with her. Rather than being pleased about the fact that his brother was as reluctant to be here as he was, even though Mycroft had repeatedly emphasized that he had no time in the middle of the election campaign (for Sherlock, this rather sounded much more like Mycroft wishing to have fun with Lestrade), he felt strangely connected to his brother in their shared suffering. And that stuck in his craw.

Yet again, he scrunched up his nose while staring into his tea, thinking frantically. 

The butler's entrance announcing a visitor made Sherlock sit up. Maybe through this visitor, Sherlock got a chance to leave undetected. 

But it was just Lestrade.

Who looked unusually serious.

Sherlock's analysing gaze flitted from Lestrade to Mycroft who seemed to hold a whole conversation within a few moments just through their looks. 

“Mrs. Holmes,” Lestrade then addressed the Holmes-matriarch.

Mummy had remained seated, and didn't offer Lestrade either a chair or tea, but she didn't regard him with her usual distaste. She too seemed to sense that something was wrong.

“I'm sorry to inform you that your nephew, Sebastian Wilkes, has found his death today.”

Lestrade's words hit like a bomb. Shocked silence droned through the living room while everyone stared at Lestrade.

Her son's eyes turned to Mummy. She swallowed heavily, and put her tea cup onto the table with a shaky hand. She composed herself visibly, and stared up to Lestrade, her mien impassive.

“W-what...” Mummy cleared her throat. “What happened, Detective Inspector?”

Sherlock could see that Lestrade would have loved to grimace painfully since he was forced to answer, but he remained stoic. 

“He got into a fight. Someone else died as well.”

“Who?” Mummy asked, and her light cat's eyes zoomed in on Lestrade quickly. Sherlock had to grant him that he could withstand that gaze – probably because of Mycroft, he was used to such looks, and mostly immune by now. “Who killed my nephew?”

For a split-second, Lestrade exchanged a look with Mycroft who nodded barely impalpably. Lestrade let out a defeated sigh. 

“Obviously, Mr. Wilkes was waiting for John Watson and Bill Murray near the boy's school. We don't know the reason for the fight, but we have CCTV footage that show the three of them turning into a backstreet, arguing heatedly.” Lestrade took in a deep breath. “Traces indicate that Mr. Wilkes and Mr. Murray got into a fight, with Mr. Wilkes killing Mr. Murray. After that, Mr. Watson seems to have killed Mr. Wilkes.”

Shocked silence once more spread over the living room for a few long moments.

Lestrade's gaze flitted over to Sherlock who had made a small, whimpering noise, so softly though that only Lestrade had been able to hear him since he was standing closest to Sherlock. He seemed to grasp the young man's worry because he turned to Mummy again, and continued with his report, seemingly impassive. He beat her to it as she wanted to open her mouth shakily. “John Watson is on the run. Until now, we have found no trace of him.”

Once more, unnaturally pale eyes turned on to Lestrade like a striking snake.

This time, he actually flinched. 

“Then do your job,  _ Detective Inspector _ ,” she hissed, agitated. Her whole body shook with rage.

Lestrade flinched again under her taunting words, and Mycroft, who stood next to the couch Mummy sat on, stiffened all over. 

Sherlock clearly saw how badly he wanted to defend Lestrade's integrity, even against his mother, but, as usual, he was way too much of a coward – as he always was when it was about their relationship, Sherlock thought hardly favourably. But in the next second already, he shoved all thoughts of his brother and his lover away from him, and he couldn't help but think of John again. The desperation and worry that suddenly had him tightly in their grip threatened to overwhelm him. He had to get out of here. 

Since nobody currently took any notice of him anyway, he fled from the room. In the entrance hall, he weakly sank onto the stairs leading into the upper part of the house. Burying his fingers into his black locks, he stared at the irregular pattern of the marble floor with an empty gaze, so intensely that they started to blur before his eyes at some point. 

His brain ran at full speed. He had to help John somehow. But how? He didn't even know where he was. 

Oh well, that particular question was probably easy to answer. Sherlock was pretty sure that John hid at Baker Street. Nobody would go look for him there since there was no evident connection to this place. So, if he could just get out of here to see him...

But that wouldn't be easy. Like he knew Mummy, she wouldn't leave him as well as Mycroft out of her sight for the forseeable future in her shattering grief about her favourite nephew's death.

Sherlock had to suppress a sarcastic grunt. He, much like the police, had no clue what the fight's been about, but at least Sherlock could understand the outcome of this confrontation. If Sebastian had actually killed John's best friend, in front of his eyes, then it was no wonder that John wanted revenge. Even somebody like John Watson, with his strong sense of justice and his normally peaceable nature, wouldn't have let that happened unpunished. To be truthful, Sherlock didn't care. He didn't care about Sebastian. The only priority he had right now was John's safety which Sherlock wouldn't be able to ensure no matter what he did. Why couldn't he?! His mind must be useful for something now when it counted for the first time in his life... 

Mummy's hysterical howling managed to get Sherlock out of his head. Blinking, he looked in the direction of the living room door that was only ajar. Right that moment, she demanded of Lestrade to solve the case, under all means necessary, but obviously, Lestrade refused. His voice was calm and composed, but nonetheless, Sherlock could understand every word that was spoken, namely that he would recuse himself from the case because of his friendship to Mycroft. 

That answer was what snapped the camel's back, of course. Mummy wailed like a banchsee as she expelled Lestrade from her house. 

A few seconds later, Lestrade hurried from the living room, pulling the door shut behind himself. He spied Sherlock sitting on the stairs, and heeded for him. 

“How are you?” Lestrade asked softly while he scrutinised the boy cowering on the stairs.

Sherlock wanted to give a scathing reply, but he didn't. He just shrugged helplessly, and kept quiet.

Lestrade kept silent as well for a moment thoughtfully while Mummy and Mycroft's muffled, heated voices sounded from the living room.

“Will you manage?” Lestrade asked then. “I'm scared that you'll get caught in the middle. What happened today could cause your families' feud to escalate.”

Sherlock looked up to the Detective Inspector, his eyes hard and cold like ice. “Don't you think I care about this feud?”

Frustrated, Lestrade through his arms into the air. “Dear Jesus, Sherlock! Why won't you get how serious this is. You don't want anything to happen to John, right?” He cocked an indignant eyebrow. “So, when you know where he is, you have to tell me.”

“I don't know,” Sherlock answered promptly. After all, he really didn't know for sure, just assumed, but he saw that Lestrade didn't believe him. The Detective Inspector scrutinised him with a sceptical frown, but couldn't, of course, prove him wrong. His tightly drawn shoulders slumped suddenly. He sighed.

“Sherlock, please understand; I will help you where I can, but nonetheless, John is on the run, and I have to find him.”

“I thought you pulled out of the case.” Sherlock cocked a pointed eyebrow whereupon Lestrade simply shrugged.

“Nonetheless, it's my job, Sherlock. I can't simply switch it off. So, if I get a lead...”

“I understand what made you do it,” Sherlock brusquely changed the topic. “You didn't want to be the cop being at beck and call for Violet Holmes to execute her revenge only because you are  _ friends _ with my brother.”

“Yeah, that as well,” Lestrade nodded, willing to let his questions about John rest for the moment. “But I'm doing it for you as well.”

Surprised, Sherlock looked up at the older man.

“I don't want to be the one having to arrest John.” He shrugged. “That probably makes me a coward, but you're important to me. I don't want to hurt you.”

Sherlock had to swallow heavily while he stared at Lestrade with big eyes.

After a few seconds, he composed himself again.

“That... I think very highly of you for that, Lestrade, but I'd really rather it was you taking over John's case. With you, I know he will be treated fairly.”

Now it was Lestrade's turn to blink with surprise, and something like a proud, touched gleam stole into his eyes. Eventually, he nodded.

“Okay, Sherlock. I will surrender the case's lead, but I promise that I will stay tuned. Nothing will happen to John.”

A burden he hadn't even known he shouldered suddenly fell from Sherlock. He let out a soft sigh. “Thank you.” 

Lestrade nodded curtly, and then turned around. He'd almost reached the front door when Mycroft suddenly hurried after him from the living room.

“Gregory.”

Sherlock grimaced when he heard all the emotion in Mycroft's voice, and he would have loved to jump up and flee up the stairs. But he stayed where he was since he knew that Mycroft, who hadn't seen him yet, wouldn't have wanted for Sherlock to see him so emotional. 

Lestrade stopped, and turned around to Mycroft. The two men talked softly to each other, so softly that Sherlock couldn't understand them. But obviously, Mycroft had managed to placate Lestrade as well as cheer him up (simple manipulation, Sherlock thought, nothing more) because a grateful smile flitted over Lestrade's resigned face. Much to Sherlock's shock – and maybe to Lestrade's as well if the surprised widening of his eyes was any indicator – Mycroft bend down to Lestrade, and kissed him right here in the middle of the Holmes-manor's hallway where they could be surprised by anybody every second now. 

Sherlock came to the conclusion that it would have been better to have fled upstairs, instead of having to witness this scene now.

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft a little dazed when Mycroft drew back, a small stupid smile on his lips of which Sherlock rather wouldn't imagine that the cause for it was the fact that his brother was such a good kisser. Sherlock had to shake himself involuntarily. 

Then, Lestrade left, and after Mycroft stared after him for a while onto the closed front door, he turned around. His impassive mask came apart for a split-second when he spied his little brother sitting on the stairs. Their gazes met for a few moments before Sherlock looked away. 

It wasn't long since Lestrade had left, and Sherlock still cowered on the steps – Mrs. Hudson's attempts to draw him away from there were futile – when Father Mike arrived; doubtlessly called here to lend Mummy spiritual support. 

Before the Father entered the living room, he murmured a few words in Sherlock's direction in assing that let the younger man's heart beat faster all of a sudden. 

“John's in the  rectory .”

All at once, the oppressing worries that paralised him were blown away. Sherlock felt as if electricity ran through his whole body to animte him. He wanted to storm from the house right now to rush to John, but even in his elated mood he knew that to simply disappear would only have caused a major search for him which would have endangered John undoubtedly. 

Therefore, he had to be patient, but oh, it was Hell! Together with his new zest for action, his impatience returned which now threatened to let him fly off the handle.

Restlessly, he jumped up, and flew into his room where he paced back and forth until night fell. The house settled down, and finally, Sherlock could sneak from the house.

Never before had his feet carried him to the parrish than in that night. 

He almost knocked down Father Mike in his eagerness to finally take John into his arms. He stormed into the living room where he found John jumping up from the couch nervously only to embrace Sherlock, clearly relieved. 

“I'm so sorry,” John mumbled over and over into Sherlock's neck, causing the younger teen to wrap his arms only tighter around John. 

“I'm so happy that you're all right,” he whispered, and pressed a kiss into John's hair.

But John pulled back from Sherlock to look up to him with wide, haunted eyes. “But... Sebastian! I...”

“Oh, forget Sebastian,” Sherlock hissed, and scrunched up his nose. “I don't care about him. You should rather think about yourself. After all, he killed your best friend.”

It stung Sherlock when pain laid itself over John's face when he was reminded of that fact.

John shook his head stubbornly. “Maybe I could have prevented it. If I'd only stayed calm instead of pestering him, then maybe both of them would still be alive now.” 

“But they aren't,” Sherlock countered pragmatically even with a little more force than intended. He grasped John's shoulders. “You have to think of yourself now. I'm turning things over and over the whole day already, but I can't think of anything to help you.” He tore himself away from John, and clawed his fingers deep into his locks in frustration. 

He blinked when John suddenly grasped his wrists to losen the grab of his fingers from his hair.

“I'll have to turn myself in, Sherlock,” he said calmly, even with the hint of a smile in his face. “I should have done so already, but I panicked.”

Sherlock stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. 

“No!” he cried, agitated, and once more, he grasped John's shoulders tightly. “You can't do that. I'll never see you again.”

“That's is silly, Sherlock.”

“No,” Sherlock hissed. “You wanted to take revenge on Sebastian. If, on the other hand, you can assure me credibly that it was self-defense, so credible that the police will also believe it, then I allow you to turn yourself in, but you cannot. If nothing else, evidence will speak against you. And then what?”

John grated his teeth audibly, and had to hold back a heated “I don't need your permission for anything,” because Sherlock was of course, like always, right. He couldn't do it. It had been everything but self-defense. It was murder. And the fact that he was a murderer now disturbingly shocked him less than the resulting consequences, namely that he would lose Sherlock because of his actions. 

Beaten, his shoulders sagged, and he lowered his gaze. “What are you suggesting?”

“You have to flee,” Sherlock replied promptly. “Go into hiding until I can think of something and follow you.”

That caused John to snap his gaze up again.

“Sherlock! You can't follow me!”

Sherlock stuck out his chin haughtily. “And why shouldn't I?”

“Because you can't throw away your life for me. That's why.” Ready for confrontation, John balled his hands into fists. 

“I don't have a life without you, John!” Sherlock hissed back.

John looked at him, taken aback, and with his eyes widening in shock. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a fish out of water, but no words would come over his lips. 

Sherlock composed himself a little again, his manic, desperate eyes turned a little softer, but no less imploring. “Before I met you, I only wasted away inside my golden cage. Only through you did I find hope and happiness in my life as well as the courage to actually do what I'm good at instead of what my family thinks is proper.”

Breathing in deeply, John shook his head before he looked at Sherlock imploringly in the adamant intend to proceed with the well-whrought plan he had come here with at least half-heartedly. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are the most unusual human being I have ever met, and the thought of you not getting in life what you deserve tears me up on the inside.” 

“And what do I deserve, John?” Sherlock interrupted him bitterly, a whisp of naked desperation in his cutting voice. 

“Everything what's good and beautiful in this world, and I'm neither!” John tried to make clear.

For a moment, Sherlock was speechless until he realised what John was trying to do in that moment.

“And that's where you're wrong,” Sherlock objected vehemently. “Because you, John Watson, are the best, and the bravest, and the kindest human being on this planet, and it's  _ me _ who doesn't deserve  _ you _ , but out of some unfathomable reasong, you seem to want me. And in that case, I surely won't fight with you about that because if you hadn't noticed before, I'm a very egoistical person, and I fully intend to never let you go again. We will stay together, no matter what happens.”

John had to swallow heavily as he studied this incredible creature in front of him, and while he digested Sherlock's ultimate words. His mind worked feverishly, and suddenly simply stopped completely as he came to a decision.

Originally, he had come here to break up with Sherlock to protect him. But now, confronted with Sherlock's relentless words, how should John ever be able to fight that since it, actually, was what he yearned for as well.

“Marry me.”

Sherlock blinked. “W-what?!” 

John was surprised about his own words, but for him, it was the only logical and right thing to do. 

“Marry me,” he repeated, and stepped up close to Sherlock. He cupped Sherlock's face, and looked deeply in the eyes. “You're right, Sherlock, we'll stay together. No matter what happens.”

Now it was Sherlock's turn to swallow heavily while he stared at John, overwhelmed.

He didn't show any reaction so long that John started to get nervous, but before he could open his mouth again, Sherlock's lips crashed onto his.

“Is that a yes?” John asked after a few minutes breathlessly against Sherlock's lips.

“Yes,” the younger teenager breathed. “Yes, you idiot.”

The interior of the church was almost completely in the dark, only lit by a couple of candles at the altar Father Mike stood in front of, looking at the two young men in front of him. As a witness, Mrs. Hudson stood next to Sherlock who had been called here by Father Mike. Proud and moved, she watched the boy she had raised and the boy to whom she entrusted her darling. Discretely, she raised her handkerchief to her eyes to dap away tears of joy and emotion.

“And so I ask you, John Hamish Watson, do you want to take the here present William Sherlock Scott Holmes to your lawfully wedded husband?” Father Mike's voice echoed formally through the empty church.

“I do,” John answered with a firm voice without turning his gaze from Sherlock for even one second. 

“And I ask you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do you want to take the here present John Hamish Watson to your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” Sherlock answered as well with a firm voice, and he smiled when he said the words. In the background, Mrs. Hudson let out stifled sobs. 

“Then hereby I declare you to husband and husband.”

Both young men leaned in at the same time to kiss each other. 

At dawn, Sherlock crept back into the house quietly. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his ring finger. Although he had only worn the hastily improvised ring from Father Mike's workshop for one night before giving it to John as a lucky charm (and because it would be impossible for him to wear it; at least Mycroft would deduce what had happened immediately), he painfully missed this simple piece of metal already. Almost as much as the man the ring symbolised. The night, their wedding night, and arguably their last for a long time, had been too short before John had to sneak out of Baker Street. He would be hiding in a small suburb of London for the time being, confident that some distant relatives would give him shelter.

But Sherlock himself, too, felt as if saying goodbye to Baker Street was like going away forever. With every step he brought between himself and 221B, his heart got heavier until finally, he felt completely empty when he set foot into the Holmes residence.

Mycroft was the first he encountered. 

“Where have you been?!” he hissed at his little brother. 

Sherlock sneered in disgust. “As if she'd noticed my absence.” 

“Well, she has noticed now. She asks for you.” 

“What's going on here, Mycroft?” Sherlock eyed his brother closely, but he couldn't deduce anything that would have told him what was happening. Fortunately, Mycroft didn't probe any more where Sherlock had been. 

“The Trevors are here.”

Sherlock was tempted to roll his eyes. “Doesn't she have anything better to do? Or does she strive for their compassion?”

“They are here because of you.”

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. He stared at his brother, and while doing so, completely forgot to hold up a disinterested expression. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together unhappily. “Come,” he murmured, and, with one hand hovering over Sherlock's shoulder, guided him into the living room. 

Sherlock looked around, and exchanged a helpless look with Mrs. Hudson whose presence he had noticed from the corner of his eye. She smiled at him encouragingly, but a deep pain lay in her eyes, so as if she knew what was happening.

Irritated, he turned his eyes forwards again.

Because of him?! What was the meaning of this? He really wasn't in the mood for that right now. Did nobody here understand that his whole world had come crashing down with John's escape, but that he, at the same time, felt as if being on cloude nine, and that he couldn't even tell anybody how happy he now was to have been given the privilege to call John his husband now?! 

“Sherlock, darling.” Mummy smiled at him, but her smile remained empty and emotinoless. 

More and more confused, Sherlock stopped next to the couch she sat on. Opposite of her, the Trevors had taken their seats together with their son Victor and...

Sherlock's blood seemed to freeze in his veins when he met the cold, dark eyes. He'd met Victor's illegitimate cousin only a couple of times, but every time, a cold shudder had ran down his back, paired with a grudging fascination. Jim Moriarty was Sherlock's equal regarding intellect, but he was completely mad. And, like Father Mike stressed so often, highly dangerous. 

His mind stood still for a moment, so as if he didn't even dare to think about the reason for this visit.

He didn't react when Mummy reached for his hand, and squeezed encouragingly but also in warning. 

“Victor has come here to ask for your hand in marriage for Mr. Moriarty,” she explained. “I have to admit I had my concerns in the beginnging, but Mr. Moriarty will become an official member of the Trevor family before your marriage unites our families.”

Victor's parents nodded enthusiastically, visibly satisfied with the outcome of the conversation, while Victor only looked relieved; presumably because he was now free to marry the woman of his choice instead of Sherlock.

Sherlock decidedly avoided Jim's eyes.

For a few moments, he felt paralysed while his brain desperately tried to process what he had been told. 

He drew in a shaky breath.

“And I'm not even asked,” Sherlock discerned with a monotonous voice. Accusingly, he looked down at Mummy who gifted the Trevors with a false smile, then, he searched Mycroft's gaze. His brother's mien seemed impassive, but Sherlock clearly saw that Mycroft seethed on the inside; probably because of the way Mummy had treated Lestrade, and also because Mummy's marriage plans for Sherlock now threatened to put Mycroft, in his position as heir, under enourmous pressure. But coming to his little brother's help, who despaired more and more with every passing second, wasn't on his mind. 

Sherlock only despised him even more for that. 

“You're not of age, Sherlock,” Mummy stated with a no-nonsense attitude. 

Sherlock stared at her, incredulous. “This isn't the Middle Ages!” Sherlock protested in agitation. 

“We won't have this discussion, Sherlock,” Mummy  snapped brusquely. “I have made my decision.” 

Sherlock gasped as if slapped. He felt as if he couldn't breathe properly any more, and he was paralysed, unable to muster up even one word of resistance. 

Once more, he glared at Mummy accusingly from burning eyes, but she didn't heed him any more. Instead, she turned to her visitors again.

The Trevors ignored Sherlock as well, now that the deal had been sealed to all parties' full satisfaction.

Trembling with rage, Sherlock stomped to the other end of the room, ignoring Mycroft's piercing gaze. 

His arms tightly crossed in front of his chest so that soon, his rips started to ache, he stared out of the window while the adults behind him started  trivial conversation.

He heard someone stop behind him soft-footed, and judging by the sudden cold running over his back, he suspected very well who that was. 

When he didn't turn around to the other boy, he stepped at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock shuddered on the inside when he sensed Jim's snake-like gaze fixed onto him, but he forced himself not to show any reaction. 

“I'm very happy, Sherlock,” Jim stated with a sweet smile. “We make a good match, don't you think.” 

“Some say so, others so,” he pressed forth through, hard-pressed to keep his composure.

Jim laughed softly, but there was no humour in this laugh. Sherlock wanted to shudder once more. “ _ I _ think we make a good match. Especially...” He bend closer to Sherlock, and crooned into his ear with a sickly familiarity in his voice. “Now that that pesky mafia brat is gone, we can be all alone together.”

Sherlock froze, and this time, he couldn't hold back. Shocked, he stared at Jim. His lips trembled, but the “How...” got stuck in his throat.

Jim continued to fixate him with those cold eyes, and he smiled. He swayed his head. “I have my sources, you know.”

“Good for you.” Sherlock returned Jim's manic gaze coldly, and he swore not to be the one to yield in this situation.

Involuntarily, he flinched violently when Jim placed his arm around Sherlock's waist abruptly. The other arm snaked up so he could place his hand onto Sherlock's chest. He craned his neck again so that his lips almost touched Sherlock's ear. “I may not be your first, Sherlock, but I can assure you, I will be your last. You're mine now.”

“Over my dead body,” Sherlock pressed out through gritted teeth. In answer, Jim only laughed a soft, sharp laugh that send icy shudders down Sherlock's back. “I don't think so, my lovely. You don't have the grit for that.”

Sherlock looked down, directly into Jim's cold, madness-streaked eyes. And suddenly, he saw the rest of his life in these eyes. At Jim's side. The thought paralysed everything in him so that he suddenly felt already dead inside. He didn't want to die, he wanted to be with John. But should his family really sell him off to this snake, he swore that he would jump from the roof of this house. And he would let Mummy watch.

But instead of giving Jim a possibly too rash answer – he had to be careful, this boy was his equal in intellect and cunning, and therefore not so easily fooled like everybody else –, he simply pressed his lips together, and slipped past Jim who set him free from the embrace without resistance. He tightly clasped his hands behind his back so that nobody noticed their trembling, and took position behind Mummy sitting on the sofa, still doing mindless conversation with the Trevors. He sensed, while holding out there, Jim's as well as Mycroft's probing gazes turned his way, but he ignored both adamantly.

The Trevors didn't stay overly long since Mummy was still in deep mourning over the death of her favourite nephew, having worked herself into her theatrical sorrow until she'd almost collapsed with exhaustion; the prospect of a wedding was the only thing that managed to cheer her up a bit. With his eyes lowered in false grief, Sherlock took his chance, and asked Mummy to go to church to pray for Sebastian.

“That's a good idea, my darling,” she smiled, and absentmindedly brushed her hand through his hair.

“Mycroft, please call the new drive, what's his name?”

“Daniel,” Mycroft replied helpfully, and then turned to his brother. “I'll accompany you, Sherlock.” 

His heart stopped for a moment in panic, and deepest revulsion distoretd his face, but Sherlock pulled himself together. He didn't want to risk Mummy's goodwill, and if there was one thing that really drove her up the wall, then it was the constant mutual taunting of her sons, especially in a situation like this. “Maybe another time, Mycroft. I'd like to be alone for now.”

Mummy bought his crestfallen tone and his hanging shoulders since she didn't make the effort to look closer, but Mycroft didn't buy his act not for one second, of course. But since he, too, didn't want to arouse their mother's ire, he only frowned. “Of course,” he conceded as dignified as possible, but through clearly gritted teeth.

With a brisk nod, Sherlock fled the room, his brother's suspicious gaze still following him.

Sherlock practically tumbled from the car when it stopped in front of the church, that was how much he was in a hurry to return to Father Mike. He didn't heed the new driver's calls after him, but rushed across the forecourt of the church with long steps until he reached the recotory. Impatient and close to hysteria, he pounded on the front door. A surprised Father Mike opened the door soon after, but immediately stepped aside to let Sherlock in when he saw the pale expression on his face. For a moment, he watched his young guest helplessly as he roamed the living room like a caged animal.

“In all the chaos, I didn't find the time to tell you, and, of course, yesterday was the wrong moment as well, but I'm sorry about Sebastian, Sherlock,” was the first thing the cleric could think of as a greeting, but when Sherlock spun around to him like a fury, he winced. Wrong topic, obviously.

“Why should I care about Sebastian!” Sherlock spat shakily, his manic, feverish gaze coming to rest on Mike. “But you were right. You were right in every regard.” Sherlock buried his fingers so tightly in his locks that his knuckles turned white, and he staggered for a moment, so that Mike rushed over to him worriedly, grasping his arms to keep him from folding in on himself. Suddenly, Sherlock started to sob, and, shocked, Mike tightened his grip on Sherlock's arms to support the young man.

“I was right about what, Sherlock?” he asked gently, but deeply worried.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock choked forth desperately.

Mike felt as if he tumbled into the abyss in free fall, and for a moment, he had to close his eyes. “Moriarty asked for your hand in marriage,” he then managed to get out, his voice emotionless, after he had made the right conclusion.

Sherlock nodded jerkily, still trembling. “How happy they all were, sitting together with their tea, Mummy and the Trevor familiy, while they left handed me over to Moriarty who finally showed his true face,” he hissed accidly, and balled his hands into fists to hide their strong shaking.

“Sherlock, I,” Mike began, but stopped himself since, really, what should he have told Sherlock in that moment. Empty platitudes wouldn't help the young man, and neither were they appreciated. Clumsily, he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulder, and gently pulled him over towards the couch. “Come, sit down. Do you want tea?”

But Sherlock only shook his head; in that moment, tea would have reminded him too much of John who, back in Baker Street, had imposed the drink on Sherlock seemingly nonstop.

Helplessly, Mike patted his shoulder. “We will find a solution,” Mike tried to cheer him up awkwardly, but Sherlock didn't even react for a few long moments. He probably searched through his mind palace right now to find a solution. Mike remained at his side the whole time.

“Help me, Father, please,” Sherlock eventually begged calmly. He'd rummaged through his entire Mind Palace for a way out, but he hadn't found anything that could have helped him. And after analyzing all the facts, it had become clear to him that under no circumstances would he accept the life that was waiting for him, and also that he would need help to escape this bleak future. He looked into Mike's eyes imploringly.“If you don't help me, you will have to bury me tomorrow.”

Mike swallowed heavily, an icy shudder running down his back because he realised that Sherlock was dead-serious. He nodded cautiously. “Of course I'll help you. I will do everything in my power to prevent this wedding, but for that, you stop this nonsense tight now, got it?!” Mike looked at Sherlock strictly. 

He pushed out his lower lip in defiance, but was unable to hide his panicked fear from Mike. “I'm serious,” he stated without any emotion. 

Mike nodded shakily. “I don't doubt that for a second, but, Sherlock, there has to be a less drastic way.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip, and didn't reply anything. 

“On the other hand...” Thoughtfully, Father Mike crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Maybe death isn't such a bad idea after all.”

“Excuse me?!” Sherlock exclaimed disbelievingly, but in the next second, he started to realise when the cleric went over to his crammed bookshelf, and pulled forth a thick tome that he dropped in front of Sherlock onto the coffee table. “Here.” he pointed at a paragraph after he had found the page he was looking for. 

Sherlock bend over the book in utter concentration, his gaze skanning the paper hectically. Then, he straightened again, frowning. “This could be the solution, yes.”

Father Mike nodded gravely, but determined. “And if we carry this out cleverly, this could even work.”

He had to pull himself together so as not to wince under Sherlock's piercing look which the young man suddenly fixed onto him.

“It has to work,” Sherlock spat, but under all the angry determination, Mike could still detect the helpless fear of falure that, right that moment, let Sherlock appear like the fifteen year old boy he actually was. Those around him so often forgot his real age faced with his brusque, cultivated appearance and his cutting, frightening intelligence. Mike only now became really aware of this and it spurred him on even more to help the unfortunate boy.

“Then let's begin,” he said in a firmer voice than he actually felt inside.

“The most important thing is that you let John know about the plan,” Mike told him firmly. “When he learns that you're dead...” 

A shudder ran down Sherlock's back at the thought. He wouldn't and couldn't imagine John's pain. He nodded ardently. “I will see to it. Is it ready?” A little troubled, he looked over the cleric's shoulder. 

“Yes, almost,” the older man explained, and turned off the flame of the Bunsen burner. He rummaged around in a drawer, and pulled out a plastic-sealed package.

“It can be taken orally or intravenously,” he muttered as he peeled a syringe out of its plastic packaging, and then used the poison that the two of them had brewed together over the past few hours. Then he handed it to Sherlock. “Here. This way, it will look like an overdose. Your mother has long suspected that you take drugs, so it won't make her suspicious.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.  “Nice to know your parents think so highly of you,” he spat bitterly.

“She will call me, and then, I will exchange the syringes,” Mike continued with his explanation, completely convinced that the deeply religious Violet Holmes would first call a priest instead of a doctor. “You can leave everything else to me.”

Sherlock nodded gravely while his clammy fingers clutched the delicate phial Mike had handed over. “Thank you, Father. For everything.” 

Mike nodded. “We won't see each other again, won't we.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, and looked up when Mike offered his hand. 

“Then I wish you all the best. You and John.”

Sherlock nodded once more while he grasped Mike's hand tightly. Then, he briskly left the rectory.

Sherlock was glad not having to meet his mother any more tonight since she had retired early without any dinner to nurse her migraine. A fire burned in the fireplace in the living room, and since it would be pretty cold in his own room, Sherlock curled up on the sofa for a few minutes to stare thoughtfully into the flames. That's how Mycroft found him some time later. Without a word, the elder Holmes sat down in the armchair across from the couch, and looked at his little brother who, however, did not pay any attention to Mycroft's presence.

For a while, they simply sat there.

“Do you love me, brother?” Sherlock eventually asked softly, his gaze straying far away so that he didn't even see the flames in the fireplace anymore.

“More than my life,” shot through Mycroft's head, but instead, he simply said, “Yes.”

Sherlock processed this answer for a moment before he nodded calmly. Then, he unfurled from his curled up position, and rose. “But not enough to prevent the wedding.” There was no accusation in his voice, only sadness. 

Mycroft sighed while he had the feeling that the sight of his crushed little brother was a sharp knife thrust into his heart. “I couldn't chenge her mind. I'm sorry.”

Sherlock smiled tiredly. “Me too.” He headed in the direction of the door. “Goodby, brother.”

For a moment, Mycroft froze, deeply troubled, but then, he sank back into his armchair while looking after his brother, attributing Sherlock's ominiously sounding words of goodbye simply to his brother's typically dramatic streak.

An uncharacteristic, hysterical scream tore through the morning stillness in the Holmes residence. Violet Holmes, always an early riser who had no love lost for lounging around in bed, had gone into her youngest son's room shortly after sunrise. After, all they had to organise a wedding which would distract them all from their sorrow about Sebastian's death. 

But when she breezed into Sherlock's room without knocking, and tore open the curtains, she froze like ice for a moment after she had turned around to her son's bed. 

Then, she let out an ear-splitting scream.

Just a few moments later, household staff as well as Mycroft stormed into the room, a lot of them still in their night clothes. One of the maids let out a stifled scream and the old cook of the Holmes family slapped her hands over her mouth in shock. Mycroft came to a stand still at the foot of the bed, frozen, showing no reaction on the outside, and stared down at his mother who, sobbing and screaming hysterically, cradled her youngest child's lifeless body in her arms. Mycroft immediately noticed the used syringe on the bedside table. He let out a shaky breath.

“Call a doctor,” he instructed the butler who had stopped beside him. 

“No,” Mrs. Holmes sobbed. “I want Father Mike.” 

“Mother...”

“Call the priest!” she screamed, her voice cracking, and Mycroft obeyed without a word. He nodded at the butler who discreetely removed himself, and shooed the rest of the staff from the room. Mycroft remained alone with his mother. But he, not for one second, thought one second about comforting his mother. His whole attention was focussed on Sherlock's remains, and he felt something he had never really felt before: unrestrained grief nurtured by guilt. If he'd just taken Sherlock's words from the night before seriously instead of working the night through in their father's office... 

Almost violently, he turned away from the devastating sight, and stared out of the window without really seeing anything. For a moment, he thought about calling the police if he wasn't allowed to call an ambulance. Gregory's assistance would be very welcome now. But Mycroft rejected the idea just as quickly. Sherlock was dead; he could not detect an act of violence, so what was the use of the police trampling around his house? He didn't even want to think about the press and what an investigation meant for his reputation and the upcoming election.

Instead, he brusquely sent a message to Anthea so that he could prepare a statement to the press, as brief as possible yet so informative that wild speculation could be prevented. The yellow press would be soaking up greedily the tragic death in the Holmes household, therefore he couldn't use any wild speculation to top it off. She would come up with an explanation that would be as gentle on his reputation as possible; he could rely on her.

Detached, Mycroft watched Father Mike's arrival eventually, and, at his mother's insistence, he undertook everything to at least safe Sherlock's soul. 

Disgusted, he turned away. His mother's deep and in his eyes hypocritical faith had constantly been reason for fights in the past. He almost couldn't bear to observe the priest's charlatanism when they should have done everything in their power to save Sherlock when he had been still alive. 

Overpowering guilt overcame Mycroft once more since he wasn't completely innocent in what had happened. 

He should have prevented it. He should have done everything in his power to prevent Sherlock's marriage to Moriarty because he simply knew that Sherlock hadn't died of an accidental overdose.  As rebellious as Sherlock might have been, he hadn't used any drugs, even though many suspected it fo whatever reason. No, Sherlock must have found the thought of being with Moriarty unbearable so that he hadn't seen any other way out. Knowing his little brother in the claws of this reptile was hard to bear for Mycroft himself, and he wished Sherlock would have confided in him. But how, when they hadn't been close for years...

But this, too, was now irrelevant, which was why Mycroft was all the more annoyed about his depressing feelings of guilt. They were of no use to anyone, least of all Sherlock.

He turned brusquely, and left the room. Instead of a wedding, a funeral had to be prepared, and throwing himself into such organisational work was exactly what Mycroft needed to distance himself from everything.

Absentmindedly, Mike put the book down again in which he hadn't read even one sentence in the past half hour. His thoughts kept coming back to Sherlock who was lying in the church at that moment, just waiting to wake up. A quick glance at the clock revealed to Father Mike that it couldn't be too long now.

And his thoughts kept coming back to John Watson for whose salvation he would pray. Even though Sherlock didn't care about his cousin's death, John did care that Sebastian Wilkes had died by his hand. Mike had seen in his eyes that this act would haunt the young man for life.

His eyes darted to the brand new, falsified credentials that were ready for the two young men. He'd had to pull some strings and call in some old favours to get them. Mike nodded. A new life was what they both needed to be happy. He would miss Sherlock, would miss their experiments and animated discussions, but in Mike's eyes, nobody deserved to be happier than Sherlock Holmes. And if that meant that he never saw the brilliant boy again, so be it.

Mike's mind leapt from thought to thought as rapidly approaching sirens startled him. He blinked for a moment before realizing what they meant: John was on his way here. And apparently, his return to London had not gone unnoticed.

Mike jumped up as if stung by a bee, and dove out of the rectory, reaching for the new papers at the last second which he shoved safely into the pocket of his cardigan.

This development was far from ideal, and it put everyone involved under a lot of time pressure – especially if Sherlock didn't wake up soon –, but at least Mike was relieved that the rest of the plan seemed to have worked smoothly and Sherlock had John brought up to date about the plan.

How he could enable the two young men's escape would somehow come to mind along the way.

As soon as Mike had rushed from the rectory to the church forecourt, John tumbled through the gate as if the devil was after him in person.

“Run into church and lock from the inside!” Mike called.

John stumbled for a moment when he heard Mike's voice so unexpectedly out of the gloom, but making eye contact for a split second, he nodded and sprinted up the steps to the portal.

Mike had only just time to breathe a sigh of relief after the portal behind John had slammed shut as bright blue lights lit up the church forecourt.

Straightening up, he went to meet the police.

The slamming of the heavy church portal echoed like thunder in John's ears. After pushing the iron bar shut with trembling fingers, he slumped against the solid wood, panting.

His loud breaths sounded unnaturally loud in his ears in the otherwise deadly silent vestibule of the church. Oh well. The building was a crypt at that moment after all.

A crypt in which...

No.

A shiver of despair shook John's whole body. He couldn't think about it. And yet he was here to see his beloved Sherlock one last time.

The weapon that was stuck in his waistband, the weapon that had killed Bill and Sebastian, suddenly seemed to weigh down his body, like an ominous warning...

Taking a deep breath, John straightened his shoulders. Then he opened the portal to the nave. He was almost blinded by the golden light of hundreds of candles that lined the middle aisle of the nave through which John stumbled, his gaze fixed firmly ahead at the sanctuary.

And there he was. Laid out in a sea of sparkling candles.

Sherlock would have hated it.

Sherlock looked so peaceful as if he was just sleeping. John still couldn't explain what had happened. By the time he'd gotten the news from his relatives about the tragedy at the prestigious Holmes house, a world had collapsed for John. He had stared at the television as if stunned, absorbing every word of the sparse information that the anxious news anchor had been giving.

Surely Sherlock hadn't killed himself, had he? Even if that was the only logical explanation for his death.

But why?!

They had wanted to go away together...

In that moment, John deeply regretted not having contacted Sherlock somehow. At one point, he had noticed that he had lost his mobile, but since he had been convinced that they had sorted everything out, he hadn't taken any effort to at least find out Father Mike's number to ask how Sherlock was doing. He had assumed that the planning could wait one or two days, that he had to stay put for now.

Oh, if he'd just acted differently! If he could have talked to Sherlock, could have assured him that everything would be fine, then maybe he would be still alive now. 

Tears suddenly blurred John's view of Sherlock. Shakily, he brushed them away when new desperation overcame him. 

“Sherlock, please,” John whispered, broken, and with a last ounce of irrational hope. “Please, just one miracle. Please don't be dead.”

Sobbing, he stepped closer to Sherlock's laid out body. Hesitantly, he touched Sherlock's cheek to caress it. Sherlock's body seemed so alive, even warm. But that was probably only wishful-thinking on his part. 

Trembling, he reached for Sherlock's hand that rested on his chest, and carefully slipped his wedding ring back onto his finger.

“Please, Sherl ock...”

Slowly Lestrade ran out of patience, and he glared at Father Mike who, after hurryingly meeting the police, now blocked their access to the church. The threat that he, priest or not, would make himself guilty if he hid a fugitive suspected of murder did not work on the rather phlegmatic, but now determined man.

“Mycroft Holmes will have my head if something happens to his little brother's body,” Lestrade pleaded with the priest, changing his strategy, but the priest still didn't move his compact weight away from the church gate.

“What could possibly happen?” Father Mike asked calmly. “He's stuck there,” – Mike didn't mention that the door to the sacristy was unlocked – “leave the young man a few minutes. John Watson is just a desperate soul who wants to ask for forgiveness of his sins in there.”

Lestrade grunted in amusement, and opened his mouth to speak when a shot ripped through the silence in the church, the echoes of which could be heard out here. Everyone froze in front of the building.

“Forgiveness seems to be denied to him,” Lestrade murmured after everyone had startled themselves from their shock, and started rushing around, crying agitatedly.

The priest looked up at Lestrade, face suddenly pale and pain-stricken after he had crossed himself. Something was going on here. Lestrade just didn't know what it was. But the priest knew.

“Will you let me into the church now?” he hissed.

Father Mike shook his head, his eyes gleamed wetly. “I can't,” he whispered, choking as he kept wondering how everything could have gone so badly. “It's locked from the inside.”

“What is going on here, Father!?” Lestrade grabbed the stocky man by the shoulders, and glared at him intently. Over Father Mike's shoulder, he saw Mycroft slowly walking across the church square to the portal; he looked calm as usual, but Lestrade could see the emotions swirling around in the pale blue eyes like a torrid whirlpool. He closed his eyes for a moment because he couldn't use his grieving and obviously angry livid lover right now.

“It's too late, Detective Inspector,” Father Mike whispered, pulling out of Lestrade's grip. For a moment, he thought about telling Lestrade everything so that he could at least save Sherlock, but even if he made himself guilty of aiding suicide and thus sinned in the face of God, he knew that Sherlock was radical and, uncompromising as he was, in life as in love, he would want to live no life without John. Therefore, Mike kept his silence.

Lestrade stared blankly at the other man for a second, then turned to his people urgently. “Break this door open!”

The uneasy feeling in his stomach grew stronger until he wanted to cringe in pain. He did not dare to turn, and look into Mycroft's eyes which was why he stubbornly kept his eyes on the heavy double-door of the church to which his men had now taken a battering ram.

The wood of the heavy church door finally splintered after what felt like an eternity, although only seconds could have passed, and the doors were thrown open under the force of the battering ram. Lestrade rushed in first. What he saw made his blood freeze.

“Sherlock!” he screamed, but in the same moment, a second shot tore through the deathly silence of the church. Sherlock's body on the other end of the nave crumpled, and lay still. 

Lestrade started running before he could even get a clear grip on his mind. Within a few seconds, he had crossed the nave, and came to a slithering stop in front of the sanctuary. His vision blurred for a moment before clearing again as involuntary tears ran down his cheeks. His throat was tight as he looked down at the two lifeless young men, their hands clasped tightly, Sherlock's staring, dead eyes fixed on John's face.

The detective inspector struggled to stay on his feet as he slowly began to get a clear picture of the whole tragedy. Uncontrollable anger suddenly rose in him. Rage at the Watsons, at the Holmes, at Mycroft, and even at Sherlock, whose brilliant mind would have found a more sensible and less dramatic solution than this, or so Lestrade would have thought. He had to swallow when he thought back at the arrogant, but at the same time insecure, socially awkward boy he had met four years ago. All the brilliance and humanity that Sherlock had possessed in spite of all the struggles was lost now due to a ridiculous feud.

Lestrade took a deep, shaky breath when his men slithered to a shocked stop next to him. He straightened up, and hid all unduly grief behind a mask of cool professionalism. He turned around, and briskly marched back to the church's entrance where Mycroft already awaited him outside, clearly enraged that he had been denied entry by Lestrade's men. When he now saw Lestrade heading his way, the Detective Inspector deduced the exact second Mycroft read the horrible thruth in Lestrade's face. A barely detectible tremble ran through Mycroft that Lestrade only noticed because he knew this man like himself. Then, Mycroft turned back into the Iceman, and he stepped up to the portal, unhindered this time because even Lestrade didn't block his way.

“Don't let my mother in,” he asked softly, and Lestrade nodded, wanted to take Mycroft's hand, enfold him in his embrace no matter who may see, but he didn't. Because on the other hand, he was still so furious with the Holmes and the Watsons whose petty but bloody feud was responsible for their childrens' death. And that included his lover as well.

He let Mycroft pass, and just wanted to leave the church, but something held him back. Despite all his anger, he couldn't leave Mycroft now since his partner had just now – for the second time – lost the person he loved most on this planet, maybe except for Lestrade himself, that is. So, he briskly spun back around, and followed Mycroft at a little distance. He still kept his distance when Mycroft stopped in front of the altar, and stared down onto Sherlock and John's bodies. Minutes passed during which he simply stood there as if frozen while gazing at the tragedy in front of him. 

When Lestrade contemplated taking him away from there, Mycroft stirred again. Dignified, but clearly broken, he stepped down to the first row of benches, letting himself fall onto it. He suddenly seemed so lost and lonely that Lestrade couldn't stand it any more to see him suffer. Determined, he came to a standstill next to Mycroft, and gently put his hand on to the back of Mycroft's head.

This one touch seemed to be enough the let him lose all ironclad self-control this man normally seemed to pull of in situations such as these, right in front of Lestrade's eyes. A shaky, loud intake of breath could be heard from Mycroft before he turned to Lestrade, put his arms around his waiste, and buried his face against Lestrade's chest to stifle the soft sobs he couldn't hold back in any more.

Lestrade held him tight, and caressed his back, but he didn't say anything. What could he have possibly said. Nothing would be fine again, and furthermore, his partner hated empty phrases of comfort. 

Lestrade didn't know how long he had just stood there like that, completely alone by now in the church since his men had retreated for decency's sake, but suddenly, a loud commotion at the other end of the church abruptly brought both men back into reality. They looked up, and spied Violet Holmes and Doc Watson storming into the church in a rage. Lestrade wanted to stop them, but Mycroft simply tightened his hold around Lestrade's waist unrelentingly. Lestrade gave in, and allowed the two rivals to march past them, both of them trying to overtake the other stubbornly, only to come to an abrupt stop in front of the deathbed. For a moment, deathly silence reigned inside the church, but the moment of mutual truce was only short-lived. In the next second already, the turned to each other, and started venting their rage at each other, throwing accusations at each other under bitter tears. 

Appalled, Mycroft and Lestrade watched the dishonourable behaviour for a moment before Mycrfot suddenly rose, dignified. Lestrade could practically feel the burning coldness rushing through Mycroft's body. From one second to the next, no suffering big brother stood at Lestrade's side any more but the notorious Iceman. Even Lestrade was afraid of him for a short moment.

“Be quiet!” Mycroft's relentless voice echoed through the interior of the church which caused the two mortal enemies to fall quiet. Trembling with rage, he stared from his mother to James Watson who returned the gaze, thrown and shaking with hate for each other.

“Listen to yourself,” he hissed. “There lie your children.” Accusingly, he reached out one arm, and pointed at the bodies of the two youths. “And you have nothing better to do than blame each other. If you haven't realised: All of us are at fault for this tragedy. You two because you can't bury your petty feud, and I because I stood by without intervening.” For a few moments, Mycroft breathed heavily in and out. Then, he composed himself again. He straightened up to his full height, and pulled back his shoulders. A definite mask of devastating coldness hid the pain on his face. “It will stop. Here and now.” His voice cut like ice, and all present flinched involuntarily. “And if you don't obey, then I swear by Sherlock's soul that I will destroy you. And if it's the last thing I'll ever do.”

And with that, without dignifying his mother or James Watson with even one more look, he spun around, striding through the nave like the devil himself.

With a heavy heart, Lestrade stayed. There was much to do here, and the first thing he'd do with grim satisfaction was removing the two enemies from his crime scene.

He waved over Sally and a constable. 

When Mycroft stepped into his office, he came to an abrupt stop. The file he'd held in his hand slipped from his powerless fingers so that the lose pages inside fluttered to the floor. “Sherlock,” he whispered, aghast while he stared at his very much alive little brother lounging in Mycroft's office chair. John Watson stood at Sherlock's side like an attentive bodyguard. 

Sherlock grinned at him, and, with a wave of his hand, indicated for Mycroft to close the door. Baffled as he was, the politician promptly complied. 

“But how,” Mycroft stammered, and stumbled to the chair in front of the desk on shaky knees. A hardly eloquent “Uff” escaped him as he slumped into the chair.

“Do you really think we were so desperate that we'd kill ourselves?” Sherlock shrugged in a pointedly causual gesture while he raised his right hand, reaching for John who promptly grasped it. The younger man looked up for a moment, meeting John's eyes in a gentle grin before he turned his attention to his brother again.

“You faked your death,” Mycroft stated the obvious.

Sherlock scrutinised his brother sceptically because of his thick-wittedness, but he didn't comment on it. “Child's play. And now, we can build us a new life in peace. We haven't decided yet where we'll go.”

“And why do you let me of all people know that you're still alive?”

“Because I knew you would figure it out somehow. And you woudn't have been able to help yourself but track me down. I just wanted to forestall you and let you know that we are fine and that you don't need to take any steps to ever contact us.”

“So...” Mycroft swallowed. “That's it? I'll never see you again?” 

“Look at it from the bright side; would you rather I was dead?” 

“Of course not.”

“There you have it. Then accept it. And let me go.” Sherlock looked at his brother beseechingly until he finally nodded in surrender. With a last brusque nod, Sherlock jumped up, and pulled John in the direction of the office door. 

“Goodbye, brother.”

And then, he was out the door.

Mycroft spun around, suddenly full of panic. “Sherlock!” 

He started up. His eyes darted around, searching and hectic, his breathing heavy. He flinched violently when a warm hand was suddenly placed on his arm. He looked down and met Gregory's worried, tired look as he knelt in front of the old sofa in his office where Mycroft had fallen asleep, exhausted.

And then he remembered. His brother was dead. As was John Watson. This just now had been only a dream. 

Mycroft felt an icy fist close around his heart, squeezing. Stubbornly, he fought the tears that had the insolence to gather in his eyes to blur his sight. 

“Mycroft?”

Gregory's soft voice brought him back into reality for good. “I'm fine, it was just a dream,” he brushed aside the Detective's worry. He saw that Gregory didn't believe him, of course, but he didn't call him out on his lie either. 

Dazed, he sat up. A blanked slipped from his shoulders which hadn't been there yet when he had fallen asleep in Gregory's office.

Grateful, he reached for Gregory's hand that lay on his thigh. 

“I brought coffee and something to eat.” Gregory pointed at his desk behind him. Mycroft's eyes followed the gesture, and perceived the strong smell of fresh coffee in that moment.

“I'm not very hungry,” he murmured, and, completely uncharacteristically for him, rather would have liked to curl up under the blanket again that smelled weakly of Gregory.

The DI threw him a compassionate, painful grimace. “I know. But have to ear something. It will start soon,” he explained softly, and Mycroft nodded. A look at the clock told him that he had enough time to freshen up and compose himself before he stepped in front of the press. 

“Anthea brought you a fresh suit,” Gregory continued undeterred. “I'll show you where you can change.” 

Mycroft nodded again. For a moment, he regretted not having the chance to take a shower, but wearing a fresh, wrinkle-free suit, nobody would notice that he didn't met his usual standards. It fit how he felt on the inside... 

That he had to lead Mycroft in the direction of the pressroom like a little child was what unnerved him the most. He'd never seen this man, who didn't have the nickname the Iceman for naught, like that. But on the other hand, they'd never been in such a situation before either... 

Although the piece of paper with the sober facts about this tragic case burned in the breast pocket of his jacket, Greg didn't really know what to say. There were no words for what had happened, and he shouldn't have been leading this press conference at all; since he was personally involved, he finally handed the case over to Dimmock. But, though he was reluctant, Greg just had to do this one last thing. Treating Sherlock and John's case with dignity and a little more familiarity in front of the press may help alleviate his own guilt a little.

And he had enough guilt he had to deal with.

Because Greg wondered if the tragedy could have been prevented if he'd only confessed to Mycroft that Sherlock and John were a couple. Surely, Mycroft would have, having become suspicious, seen right through the plan, and questioned Sherlock's alleged death. He'd already asked Mycroft's forgiveness for that, and it had been granted to him. He had even got the impression that admitting his own guilt helped Mycroft bear his own a little easier since it wasn't his burden alone anymore now. 

But he didn't just feel guilty on a professional level even if he knew that he shouldn't think like that; it had simply been  a series of unfortunate circumstances that led John to return into the city believing that Sherlock was dead. Of course, when they found John's cell phone at the scene, it had been checked some time later. At that time, they had only found increasingly worried text messages from Sherlock on it. Who could have guessed that Sherlock would record a message to the mailbox a little while later  ‒ a voice from the grave which caused Greg to shudder now that he thought back on those words  ‒, telling John all about the escape plan that Sherlock and Father Mike had worked out. A message that John had never received since he had lost his cell phone at the scene.

Greg straightened his back, breathed in deeply, and with one last discreet touch to Mycroft's hand, he stepped before of the press. 

While Mycroft stood a little bit back in the press room and waited for his cue, he felt nothing. Not even the pictures of John and Sherlock – John laughing light-heartedly, Sherlock seriously and otherworldly – that were projected onto the big screen behind Gregory could touch him. Only the images that Gregory had discovered on John's cell phone from the two teenagers and shared with Mycroft a few hours ago, united in their mutual grief, had managed to touch Mycroft and made the feelings of guilt and pain overwhelming again – guilt and shame that he hadn't seen Sherlock's pain, or maybe hadn't even wanted to see it because it didn't fit into his appointments book at the time...

If he didn't have Gregory to support him now...

“It's the first time I've seen Sherlock laugh and really be happy,” had been Gregory's soft words, and Mycroft had only been able to silently agree with him. He almost couldn't remember when he had last seen Sherlock truly laugh. That was why it had been all the more painful to see Sherlock so happy in these photos – in moments of his life that Mycroft had had no part in –, and that John Watson was the reason for it.

Thrown, Mycroft flinched when Sergeant Donovan touched his arm. He threw a glance at Gregory whose encouraging gaze he met. Squaring his shoulders and straightening his jacket, Mycroft stepped in front of the cameras, his face a mask of collected professionalism. 

His voice was laced with cool detachment as well as burning passion when Mycroft declared that the ongoing feud between the Watsons and the Holmes, that had demanded far too many victims, was over for good. 

He let his cool gaze wander over the gathered reporters without really seeing any of them. He straightened his spine, and raised his voice for a last statement, a last promise on this day.

“And I will do everything in my power to stop a tragedy like this happening ever again.”

For a split-second, Mycroft faltered which was only noticed by those who knew him well. 

“I swear on everything I love, and on my brother's soul who, wherever he may be now, hopefully is happier than he was here on Earth, together with the one he loves.”

Mycroft lapsed into a final silence. 

He sensed Gregory's supporting presence behind him as well as the soft touch of a hand on his back that seemed to say, “I'm with you, no matter what happens.” 

** End **


End file.
